by Mia Kerick
Right then David sees me, and I can tell he’s trying to act cool and not rush to my side. Instead, at-school-David points at me casually, looks at his watch as if I’m late, and then saunters over, but I didn’t miss the way his eyes got really big when he first saw me.
“You made it, dude.”
“What did you expect? I don’t exactly have any other plans.” My words sound more sarcastic than I planned.
For a second, David appears a bit injured. He glances at the ground and then rubs his nose a few times, but he seems to shrug it off easily. “Um…yeah. Come on over and say hi to Len and Cam. We usually all walk together, with Sarah and Bethany.”
I follow him over to the start/finish line where our little group has congregated.
“Ready to speed walk, Del Vecchio?” Cam asks, his red hair sticking up like a rooster’s tail feathers. “Can’t let these old geezers beat us in a five-mile walk.”
One of the “old geezers”, an elderly woman with a visor and a pair of serious running sneakers, leans over toward Cam and elbows him in the ribs. “This old geezer is gonna kick your teenage bottom in this race!”
Cam rolls his eyes and replies, “Grandma, first of all it’s not a race and second, we’re gonna be way faster!”
“I’ll see you eat your words, Cammy.”
“I’ll see you eat my dust, Grammy!” Neither of them laughs but I can still tell they are teasing each other. Within a few minutes we’re all walking.
And it’s fun. It feels good to join up with a community of people who want to help others, the same way I do. There’s camaraderie and there’s the awareness that we’re acting in the best interest of the community, which is cool. As we make our way past the old historic houses, and then past St. Marks’s Church, I hold my breath and wait to feel the anticipated profound sense of loss that I’m not in that church building praying. And I do feel a degree of hollowness, but these new friends of mine have very long legs, and it’s simply too hard to keep up with them to spend much time dwelling on what I’m missing out on at St. Mark’s. By the time we speed-walk past Cameron’s grandmother on the side of the reservoir, I’ve left the hollow feeling behind on Church Street, and I’m laughing and joking around with Lenny, Cam, David and the girls.
Easter Sunday
Because it’s Easter and I don’t want to hurt or disappoint Mom and Dad or the girls, I go with them to St. Elizabeth’s for Mass after they dismantle (maybe it’s time I started adding words to my SAT list again) their Easter Baskets. I don’t partake in Holy Communion, which stings, but I refuse to be a complete hypocrite. I said goodbye to sharing in the body of Christ and I won’t waver on my stance until I’ve decided the path I’m going to take in regard to my gay Christianity.
And I’m fine. I handle the entire Mass with a measured degree of grace—in other words, I don’t start crying—until the end.
Until the recessional song.
Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!
Our triumphant holy day, Alleluia!
Who did once upon the cross, Alleluia!
Suffer to redeem our loss. Alleluia!
Tears fill my eyes, but I keep singing.
But the pains which he endured, Alleluia!
Our salvation have procured; Alleluia!
Now above the sky he’s king, Alleluia!
Where the angels ever sing. Alleluia!
I glance down the pew at my little sisters who resemble pastel-colored Easter eggs in their brand new spring dresses. They stand in a row between my mother and father, sweetly singing “Jesus Christ is Risen Today” like four perfect angels.
I’m not holy like them anymore.
The recognition of this fact hits me hard.
But I think I’m figuring out where I fit with God.
This spontaneous realization is some consolation to me.
In an effort to hold back my tears, I sniff, probably too noisily, and my parents and sisters stop singing for a second to look at me. I meet each set of worried brown eyes, one by one, offer my best lopsided grin, and ask just loud enough for my little sisters to hear, “Who’s gonna share their jelly beans with their big bro?”
After I see their smiles, I join in with the full congregation for the final verse.
Sing we to our God above, Alleluia!
Praise eternal as his love; Alleluia!
Praise him, all you heavenly host, Alleluia!
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Alleluia!
Restorative Justice
Before we head over to St. Mark’s, Mom and Dad ask me to sit down at the kitchen table with them, as they have something they want to discuss. I’m already freaking out about the meeting with Father Joseph and Rinaldo and his family, and I’m not up for a pep talk on the subject, which is what I assume my parents have in mind.
“Anthony,” my mom begins, her eyes on Dad, not me, “as you know we have been making an effort to find another church that meets our needs as a family. We dislike leaving you here alone on Sunday mornings to go to church. It doesn’t feel right to us.”
Dad takes it from here. “We didn’t want to make a big change—aside from the fact that we have switched from St. Mark’s to St. Elizabeth’s—prior to Easter. Mainly for the girls’ sakes.” He appears nervous in a way I’ve never before seen. I don’t interrupt and remind him that they don’t have to leave the Catholic Church—I’m the one with the conflict.
Mom reads my mind; she’s always been good at that. “And we know that you feel as if you are the only one who needs to make a change, but we need you to know that our Christianity is closely tied to our beliefs about family. We will never forsake Jesus Christ, but we are willing and we actually want to make changes so that we can continue to worship with you…and someday with your future husband, as well.”
I feel my expected blush coming on, so I choose this moment to study an odd-shaped piece of Lulu’s torn-off toast from breakfast that ended up on the kitchen floor. But it’s super weird to hear my mother say, “your future husband”.
Dad takes my hand and then takes Mom’s hand before he says anything else. (My parents are into physical gestures that let us kids know that we are part of a cohesive unit.) “We’ve compiled a short list of Christian churches in the area—a couple local community churches, an Episcopal church, a Unitarian Universalist organization, and a non-denominational worship center—none are at all opposed to homosexuality as a practice, in terms of their understanding of scripture. I must mention that the Catholic Church is not alone in its belief that same-sex relationships are incompatible with Christianity. To be frank, your mom and I were quite disheartened to realize this, but, as I said, we managed to come up with a list of four. Tony, we thought that each Sunday, starting next weekend, we, as a family, would check out a different church on the list. You know, to see if one feels like the best place for us to worship. If one feels right, we’ll stick around for closer investigation.”
I don’t know why, but tears fill my eyes. I’m turning into a regular watering can, lately. Crying here, crying there…. I sigh deeply. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything at all, Tony. We are a family and we are going to do this search together.” Dad squeezes my hand hard enough to hurt, indicating that he means what he’s saying.
“And we wanted to let you know before we inform Father Joseph of our plans tonight.” Mom removes her hand from Dad’s and stands up, leaving Dad and I holding hands at the kitchen table. “Now, get your coats, guys. I’m going to check with Mary one more time and make sure she is all set for her first time babysitting the girls. I must say, she’s excited about this opportunity.”
Dad and I watch Mom walk out to the living room where the girls are doing homework and coloring.
“You ready, son?” Before I answer, I check Dad’s eyes to make sure he seems cool with this, which he does. I’ve caused a lot of changes in this family recently, and I need to know he isn’t angry or resentful. “Time’s
a-wasting,” he adds when I don’t respond.
I smile, but hold onto his hand for a moment longer so I can study him, studying me.
Precisely at seven, as had been requested, we arrive at the St. Mark’s Church offices that are located on the side of the rectory. Sitting in the waiting room, I can hear the soft rumble of voices behind the closed door of Father Joseph’s office. It seems that Rinaldo and his parents are already in the room, probably discussing the situation. My stomach has decided on staying in a permanent state of cramped-up.
Mom, Dad, and I sit on the long leather couch in the waiting room, all of us crossing and uncrossing our legs nervously. This meeting certainly is not an everyday event.
Finally, after about twenty minutes, the door to the office opens slowly, and Father Joseph appears. He smiles warmly and gestures for us to come inside. Without a word, we rise and follow him into his office. Rinaldo and Mrs. Vera sit in wingback chairs to the right of Father Joseph’s desk, on the other side of the desk three folding metal chairs are set up.
At seeing Rinaldo for the first time since that night in the church parking lot, a spontaneous spike of fear darts from my chest to my throat. I swallow it back.
“Please, Gina, Paul, and Anthony…please sit down and join our discussion.” Father Joseph looks from Rinaldo to his mother, and then back to us again. “I believe you all know each other. Rinaldo and Edie, you know Gina, Paul, and Anthony, right?”
We all nod. I can feel Mrs. Vera’s eyes on my face, studying the scab on my lip and noting the way the skin underneath my eye is still a sickly greenish color. For a second, I wonder where Mr. Vera is, and then it hits me that maybe he isn’t coming. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in church for a long time, maybe not even since last spring. Very briefly I allow my gaze to flicker on Rinaldo. He’s bent over in his chair, staring at the floor. All I can see is the top of his head and I’m glad. Maybe I’m not ready to see what’s in his eyes.
It’s quiet and tense in the room. I wish I could be anywhere else. My stomach cramps tighter, which surprises me, because I hadn’t thought that was possible.
Thankfully, Father Joseph takes the wheel. “Anthony, Mrs. Vera, Rinaldo and I would like you to know that we have been discussing what happened on the Wednesday night of the physical altercation.”
Mom interrupts—I’m actually shocked she doesn’t jump to her feet, as well. “Excuse me, Father, but it wasn’t as much a physical altercation as it was that Rinaldo beat up my son.” My mother likes to call a spade a spade. And since I referenced playing cards, I’ll say that I’m sure my face is as red as a heart or a diamond.
“Well, yes, Gina. You are correct. Rinaldo admits that he assaulted Anthony without provocation. He also understands that you could have taken this matter to the police but you chose to handle it here instead. In fact, he has something he would like to say to you in regard to that fact.” I lift my head slightly and note that Rinaldo is still focused on the floor. Father Joseph and all of the parents look toward him expectantly.
He’s quiet for a minute, apparently none to eager to say what he’s here to say. But eventually, he speaks, his head still bowed. “I…um… Anthony, thanks for not calling the cops on me.”
It’s not an apology, but it’s a start. I can’t see his face, though, which makes it hard to judge the honesty behind his softly spoken words. But it sounded, at least, like Rinaldo, the gentle giant, has returned from whatever hole of fenzied fury he’d fallen into.
“There’s more, Anthony… I got other stuff I want to say to you.”
I look at him again, and despite the fact that his head is still aimed at the floor, his eyes are now directed upward, right at me. They are puffy and red-rimmed. And they are eyes that appear very sorry. “Go ahead,” I tell him blandly.
Rinaldo glances at his mother and then to Father Joseph, as if for approval, which he receives in the form of two small nods. “You’ve always been real cool to me. Since we were kids, I mean. And you didn’t deserve what I done to you.”
We had always gotten along just fine. That was why I hadn’t expected the unbridled anger he’d unleashed on me in the parking lot that night.
“There’s stuff goin’ on at my house that nobody knows about…and I didn’t want nobody to know about. And that’s the stuff that got me all pissed off, I blamed it on you and lashed out.” Those puffy red eyes are now starting to get wet, and I realize I have no desire to see Rinaldo Vera cry.
Mrs. Vera clears her throat. “You see, my husband and I had an extremely unfriendly divorce. He has left the family, and has…um…remarried…and I feel that I let my anger at the fact he moved on with another person color my attitude in front of Rinaldo. I was a very poor example to my son and I am very sorry.” She looks up at Father Joseph with a desperate expression on her face, and he seems to know it’s time for him to bail her out.
“Anthony, Mr. Vera divorced Mrs. Vera and left the home to pursue a relationship with another man. As a result, a great deal of negative talk about homosexuality and same-sex marriage, and the relating of those things directly to the Vera family’s pain, occurred in their home. Rinaldo soon adopted this very negative attitude from his mother, and when you expressed to the group that you believed you were gay, he used you as a substitute—someone on whom to vent his pain and anger.”
“He really hurt Tony, you know. We have pictures of him that we took the next day—Tony missed two days of school because of his injuries.” I know Dad is trying to defend me, but he’s embarrassing me even more.
“Anthony, would you please look at me for a sec?” It is Rinaldo’s quiet voice again.
Obedient as always, I look up at him. I’m blushing and sweating—the very picture of uncool.
“I’m sure sorry for what I done. You’re not the one I’m pissed at and you bein’ gay really don’t matter to me one way or the other.”
That is hard to believe as I saw his eyes when he was beating me. “You said I was going to be destroyed like Sodom and Gommorah—remember, at the intervention?”
All of the parents’ hands involuntarily lift from their laps to cover their wide-open mouths when they hear the word intervention. Even Father Joseph seems a bit perplexed, as if he’s not fully sure of what an “intervention” is. All he has to do if he wants to get the complete picture is switch on the A&E channel—he can watch more reruns of the show Intervention than he can tolerate. I’d even seen a few episodes of Intervention in my continual search for old episodes of Starsky and Hutch.
“I was real mad, Anthony.” He swallows hard but a few tears manage to escape from the outer corners his dark eyes, and I’m confident that the source of his pain goes far beyond his regret for hurting me. “My dad isn’t even here, like yours is. I got in big trouble and he still couldn’t leave his new husband to come and deal with me. But it’s not ‘cause he’s gay that he’s not here; it’s on account of the fact that he’s a selfish asshole.”
Despite his cursing, all of the adults nod at him.
“Now, Rinaldo has expressed his sorrow and regret at his actions, but nonetheless, he still wronged you, Anthony.”
“It’s no big deal. I’m fine.” I’m starting to feel kind of bad for the kid.
“Well, I have been involved with a church division called The Office of Restorative Justice. Our mission is to provide pastoral care for the victims of crime, the offenders, and the families of both. We serve the people involved by using education and outreach and…I suppose you could say that we walk with the prisoner and the victim along the pathway toward reconciliation and healing.”
We all gawk at the priest as if he’s speaking in Greek.
“Often, the transformation of society’s attitudes is played out in and around the justice system. In our case, the justice system is not involved, but I feel that it is appropriate to follow the same model.” Father Joseph goes over to his desk and picks up a clipboard with handwritten notes written on it. After reviewing the notes quick
ly, he leans in toward Rinaldo. “Part of our goal is to allow Anthony to express his feelings regarding what you did to him. He needs for us to know how scared and hurt he felt. And Anthony needs to understand that what happened was in no way his fault. You, Rinaldo, need to know that what you did was wrong, understand why, and make the appropriate changes.”
“I am sorry, Father J,” Rinaldo insists.
“And I’m not mad anymore.” I’m really not.
“That may well be true, but to make this a truly restorative situation, we need to take formal steps. First, Rinaldo, you must give Anthony satisfaction, or reparation of the damage done to him.”
“So, like, Anthony gets to beat on me?” Rinaldo seems to take the possibility of a physical beating in stride. But I’m shaking my head before Father Joseph has a chance to answer. Assaulting anyone mercilessly is not exactly my style.
“We do not subscribe to the ‘eye for an eye’ theory, Rinaldo. Anthony needs to be satisfied in other ways. We will bring him justice. You need to express your sorrow and regret as you have, but you need to communicate with Anthony. You need to consider where your actions have left him and do what you can to repair his new situation.”
“Like, how have my actions affected you, Anthony?” It seems like Rinaldo really wants to know. He sniffs, rubs his face with his palms, and then again asks, “Like how?”
“I don’t know—I mean, I’m fine now. You can see for yourself that my face is almost better and… and, uh…I don’t know.” I shake my head.
Father Joseph directs his attention toward me. “You do not get assaulted by a person who you long regarded as a friend without having some residual feelings. Please be honest with us. Rinaldo is not here to further hurt or torment you; he is here to repair what damage he did.”
I take a deep breath and realize that, along with the truth, I will also be handing Rinaldo a sword he can use to cut out my heart, if he so chooses. “Sometimes… like sometimes when I’m alone, maybe outside, or maybe in the hallway at school, I think somebody might come up behind me and beat on me.”
