God Says No

by James Hannaham

  As Gay helped Annie remove all the goodies from the bag, I stepped around them and into the main part of the hotel room, where my mother was still calling out for me. She lay on the bed, even larger than my memory of her. Mama screamed and screamed when she saw me. “My baby! My baby!” I gave her a big smile and a bigger hug. Her hair was short, straightened and combed, but not really styled. It had turned grayer than I ever imagined my mother’s hair could get. She had on a plus-size cotton dress covered with daisies. Tears streamed down her face, and her eyes were red. The dark pockets at the top of her cheeks made her look permanently sad. She held out her hands to me for another hug.

  As my body sank into hers, I cried, too. While crying, I noticed a four-footed cane by the bed. For a while I couldn’t understand anything she said through her tears, because my hug covered her mouth. I thought Cheryl would get excited, too, but she still hadn’t come over. I hugged Mama and turned to see my daughter sitting at the desk, posing her little doll all kinds of ways. The doll had on a bikini bathing suit. I recognized the long limbs and blond hair of Barbie. Why had Annie let her have a secular doll?

  Annie and Gay came into the room to watch us, smiling broadly. Slowly we separated, and Mama scooted over on the bed so that I could sit on the edge. She pulled a tissue from a box on the nightstand and wiped her eyes and nose. We had dinner at a cheap family restuarant on the same block as the dirty bookstore I’d visited when I first came to Atlanta. I prayed that we wouldn’t run into anyone I had known as August Valentine.

  The firecracker thrill of seeing everybody after so much had happened settled down a little, and Annie and Gay and I dodged my mother’s questions about where I would end up and what I had done in my dead years and “at the rehabs,” as Mama called it.

  During dessert, Annie got up to go to the bathroom. Cheryl tapped me on the arm. “Daddy?” she requested sweetly. She hadn’t said much to me during the meal, but she hadn’t acted out either, and I didn’t want to tip the balance by saying something to upset her again. I was happy that she had decided to speak to me, and eager to grant her wishes. I leaned down into her space to hear her question. She pushed a blob of strawberry ice cream into the center of her spoon.

  “It’s okay if you don’t come home,” she said, bobbing her head up and down and grinning. She said it quietly enough that nobody else at the table heard. “I don’t want to move.” Like anybody else, I assume that a child doesn’t know what she’s saying, but this crushed me. She put the entire round part of the spoon into her mouth and pulled it out. Pink ice cream covered her lips. Then she licked the tips of her fingers and giggled like she had been joking. I tried to laugh along, but I wished I had stayed dead.

  I would visit home anyhow, I knew, once Gay and I had taken a couple of months to get the new chapter up and running. I’d ease back into married life-I would return to Orlando in a couple of weeks, then Annie would sell her business and move everybody up here. But I couldn’t adjust to the idea that Cheryl didn’t want me around. In our hotel room that night, after Cheryl and my mother conked out on the bed near the window, I told Annie what our daughter had said.

  “She needs a daddy,” Annie told me. It didn’t explain a darn thing, but it sounded good because I wanted to hear it. I nodded and put my arms around Annie and kissed her open-mouthed. During the kiss I thought about the fact that “She needs a daddy” doesn’t mean the same thing as “She needs her daddy,” or “She needs you to be her daddy.” I kept on contemplating that word choice until I fell asleep, and then the whole next day, too.

  SEVENTEEN

  Darby, the manager whose sex habits Miquel had told me too much about, stood behind the counter at Over the Rainbow. His bushy beard looked like somebody had attached a possum to his neck. He wore a dirty T-shirt and a leather vest, and he rubbed the display case with Windex. I’d tried to avoid my old life, but all the curiosity, regret, and unfinished business stuck in my craw and reeled me in.

  “August!” he called out. I froze inside, because the fake identity I left behind had stayed here in Atlanta, growing and changing in other people’s minds. I would have to play the part of that sophisticated phony again, with his olive baguettes and his Martha Graham. Darby tried to bear-hug me, but the countertop got in the way. I informed him that I’d left homosexuality, and told him a little about Resurrection. Not the whole truth, but he didn’t need to know everything. He didn’t react much, just said “Oh” softly. I asked after Miquel.

  “Miquel...” Darby shook his head. “He don’t work here anymore, you know. I had to let him go. He’s been having a powerful bad time with the booze, bless his heart.”

  “Here’s my business card,” I said. I gave him a business card, but I’d forgotten that it had my real name and Resurrection Ministries’ new Atlanta number and address on it. I wrote August on the back, and my personal phone number. Mistake.

  Every Tuesday at 6:30 p.m., Gay and I ran drop-in group sessions for people struggling with same-sex attractions. Attendance wasn’t high at first. We would both run the talks, so that it seemed like we had more members and the ex-gay movement was going strong.

  Our third meeting, Gay and I sat in the office with the door open, like always. Chloe, a bad-tempered young lady who had been there from the first, came in and sat down on the other side of the circle of chairs we had set up in the office. I suggested that she move closer, since there were ten chairs and only three people. Then a gangly boy we hadn’t seen before came in and sat across the room. He took out a pen and a datebook and started scribbling things in his agenda. His hand shook and he deliberately didn’t glance at us. The small refrigerator in the other room hummed, and nobody spoke.

  It came up on 6:45, so Gay started, welcoming Chloe and the new guy. We then went around the circle and said our names and one of our best qualities. Chloe said she had a good sense of humor. The boy introduced himself as Smith, and said he had excellent vision. Gay described her terrific spatial skills, and I said I had the biggest heart. Because we had a new person in the group, Gay said a few words about the program, its history, and how it was expanding, helping people heal, and spreading God’s love. During her description, the elevator bell went off and somebody’s footsteps came down the hall. For latecomers, we always left the door ajar with a note on it that said COME IN! in friendly letters.

  The face on the other side of the door made my heart leap with excitement and churn with fear. It was Miquel. I had expected to hear from him, if at all, on my personal line, asking for August. So I hoped against hope that he had come in on his own to solve his alcohol and SSA problems. He had a shorter haircut than before, and he had gained a little weight. His eyes went to me, smiling, and he waved with his fingers, then his glance darted to the other people in the room and he smiled and took a seat. What a miracle! Maybe.

  When Gay got done with her description of the program, she introduced herself. Then she introduced me as Gary Gray. She slapped her hands against her thighs and said “Hello, Stranger!” to the new guy. She asked him his name and his best quality. I figured things would make themselves clear when he spoke. Already I was daydreaming about how much fun we’d have as prayer partners. When all our suffering ended, we’d have family cookouts together at a long picnic table full of potato salad, fried chicken buckets, and burgers. Our wives, babies, and cocker spaniels would frolic around the park with us.

  “My name is Miquel,” he said, “and I mix a mean margarita.” He crossed his legs. Though true, it was a typical Miquel comment. I let out a small, nervous chuckle. Using that as a good quality let me know he wasn’t committed to changing his lifestyle. But I couldn’t throw him out.

  “Great, Miquel!” Gay exclaimed, with her amazing ability to turn a negative into a positive. “So alcohol is an important part of your life? Do you feel that you want help changing that, or no? Maybe that’s part of why you came to Resurrection?”

  “Alcohol has gotten me through some tough times,” Miquel said. “It’s be
en a good friend.”

  “That’s great to hear, because this program is going to help introduce you to an even better friend. I probably don’t even have to tell you His name. You’ve probably met Him before. But alcohol probably told you not to pay Him any attention, right?” Jesus’ face was on a poster behind her, and in several other places in the room. Gay’s spiritual energy glowed throughout the space. “When I was engaging in lesbianism, alcohol was always right there with me, saying, ‘Go for it!’ I’ll bet other people in the room have had similar experiences with alcohol, right?”

  “I would always have to get drunk before I could-you know,” Smith confessed. Chloe nodded thoughtfully.

  “With a man,” I volunteered.

  “Uh-huh, Even talking.” Smith smiled nervously. He stuck a finger under the band of his wristwatch and snapped it.

  “How old are you, Smith?” Gay asked.

  ‘I’ll be eighteen in a couple months.”

  Gay shook her head. “So you’re underage and homosexuality is already encouraging a dependence on alcohol. Do you see how it works? This isn’t the Lord’s plan for you, Smith, I want you to know that. God loves you.”

  “I know! It’s so obvious that the Lord wants a man to be with a woman,” Smith said. “That’s why we’re made the way we are.” He made a ring with one hand and stuck his index finger into it with the other. “See, this is a man and a woman.” Then he crossed his index fingers like swords, and banged two circled fists against one another. “Those other ways don’t work. And you can’t make a baby or nothing.”

  Miquel snorted softly, holding back a laugh. That’s how I knew for sure that he hadn’t come in to seek help changing his wicked desires. He had come to mock me and my struggle. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it had only been me, but he was also making fun of other people who had nothing to do with his life. I got hopping mad.

  He raised his fist and his thumb. “But see, Smith, Smitty-can I call you Smitty?-this is a man’s anus, and this is another man’s big fat wiener.” Smith started at Miquel’s frank language. Miquel made a gesture like Smith’s. “See how tight that is? And there’s something up there called the prostate gland that-” Smith raised his hand as soon as Miquel began his crude demonstration and then started to talk over him.

  “Sure, sure, but you still can’t make no baby!” he shouted. “You can’t make no baby!”

  “So men and women never get it on just for pleasure?” he asked. “It’s always about babies? How downright dreary!”

  I knew Smith was too inexperienced to field this typical question. “We’re talking about using the gift of sex for its highest purpose here, Miquel,” I informed him. “And that is procreation, yes.”

  “All I’m saying is if procreation is such a holy sacrament, why don’t straight people who feel that way stop debasing it by having sex? You don’t need to do the nasty anymore if you want a kid. You can just get a little petri dish, swirl everything around in there, and if your wife’s too lilywhite to sgueeze the puppy out herself, then you can just implant it in the Mexican maid. Or better yet, cut out the middleman and screw the maid! That’s even more efficient than adopting a disadvantaged kid-make one from scratch! Hell, that’s what my daddy did!”

  “Miquel!” I shouted, to stop his offensive outburst. “When you first came in, I hoped that you were seeking healing. But if you just came to make fun of me and these other young people who are struggling, why don’t you leave? Don’t interrupt other people’s process with your negativity.”

  Miquel sighed, like I’d interrupted his meeting, and let his shoulders fall. “I needed to talk to you about something, and I was trying to come early but I got here late, so there you go. And I’m not being negative, I’m genuinely interested in what your organization believes. Because it’s so nutty.”

  “You’re right, it is nutty,” Gay told him, folding her arms. Her happy attitude took on an edge. “I’m nuts about Jesus Christ, and I’m determined to get better and truly live for Him instead of doing whatever the Devil tells me to, or alcohol influences me to do. Now, if you’re serious about listening, you’re welcome to stay, Miquel, but otherwise I think you ought to take Gary’s advice and wait for him outside. Please.”

  “I’m sorry ... um, Gay. I’m just curious. I’ve always wanted to find out what people in places like this actually think. Do you really think that gays can become completely straight?” A miserable note in Miquel’s voice made me wonder if maybe his mocking tone hid a deeper longing. Perhaps he did want help, but he couldn’t tell us through the wall of sarcasm he kept between himself and others. Some of the good memories from our time together bubbled up into my heart and warmed me.

  “Homosexuality is a choice,” I told him in a soothing voice.

  “Really? Well, I didn’t pull that lever. How come I’m a big queer?” Everybody laughed at this joke, because we had no doubt asked ourselves that very guest ion many times in our lives. It had gotten so tense in the room that we needed a laugh pretty bad. Patiently, I explained Dr. Soffione’s beliefs about homosexual identity versus behavior to Miquel, and said that the choice you had was whether or not to express your longings for same-sex contact.

  “So it’s the demons that tell you to go out and sin.”

  “Hey,” Gay said. “He’s getting the hang of this!”

  “Because God only wants you to have sex for the practical reason of children.”

  Smith stretched his arms out and cracked his knuckles. “Sounds right to me,” he said.

  “And sex without babies is purposeless-like, to you guys, it’s in the same category with art, it’s like synchronized swimming, or interpretive dance, right?”

  “Art is not purposeless!” Chloe suddenly blurted. “Art serves the purpose of self-expression!” Her voice had a rough, husky sound. She would have to do a lot of vocal training to change it. I made a mental note to bring that up with her.

  “We’re not here to talk about art,” Gay reminded the group. Holding our attention for a moment of silence, she let the mood become calmer and refocused the discussion. “I thought what we should do in tonight’s session is talk about the reasons why homosexuality happens and why God might have given some of us the challenge of moving beyond it.” She went to an easel we had set up before the session and uncapped one of the magic markers on the shelf underneath. With a whip sound, she tossed the top sheet over to reveal a fresh page and held the marker above the paper, eager to start jotting.

  “Because cock tastes good,” Miquel said, unable to control his laughter.

  “No!” Gay snapped. “Please. You’re going to have to leave. Get out now.” Miquel didn’t get up, so Gay turned to the rest of us. “I’m talking about psychological reasons. Places inside us that got broken, where the Devil might get in during early childhood development and put in the wrong desires.”

  “Oh, Because your father’s cock tastes good.” Miquel had an even more hysterical fit of laughter, but he was the only one laughing. I thought he was behaving in a disgusting and immature manner. I should have known he’d been drinking.

  Gay growled in an almost masculine way. “Gary, will you escort Miquel out of the room please, unless he decides he’d like to participate in a meaningful way?” Gay stopped cold and fumbled with the magic marker. “Hold the phone! Is this the Miquel that-?”

  “Yes,” I said, as blood pumped into my face.

  “I’m sorry about this,” she apologized to Chloe and Smith as I stood and crossed the circle. “Sometimes people come in off the street and they bring the street with them. They just want to disrupt our mission and pretend that God doesn’t matter.” I grabbed Miquel by the arm and brought him to a standing position. I was surprised that I had the strength, but Miquel didn’t resist.

  “I’m not trying to say the same thing or nothing, but parental abuse?” Smith offered.

  “Great!” Gay said, writing it down on the easel. “Have either of you experienced anything like that befor
e? Physical abuse? Sexual abuse by your same-sex parent?”

  “No,” they said, almost in unison. “My folks have always been okay with it,” Smith added. “They don’t like that I’m coming here. They think it’ll make them cool in the neighborhood to have a gay son. Ain’t that sick?”

  “Oh, I feel so sorry for people who think it’s fashionable. Okay, we’ll talk about that in depth later. Any other things?”

  Miquel opened his mouth, about to say something else off-color. I’d had enough, and I didn’t want him to offend me another time. Furious, I pulled him into the hallway, then around the corner to the elevator. I pressed the button, ready to throw him into it and kick him out of the building and my life.

  “What do you want, Miquel? You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about. Make it quick, because I’m in the middle of a meeting-though you can’t seem to respect that.” His voice reverberated and rang in my ears.

  “Oh, Augie Bear, I’ve never seen you so mad! I’d better not ask what I was going to ask. I’m just going to get on the elevator and you can go back to your nutty ex-lesbians named Gay and we’ll just forget we ever saw one another again. This wasn’t what I meant to happen at our little reunion.”

  Miquel’s eyelids flared and his mouth turned down into the helpless look that had always attracted me. He had called me by my old pet name. Against my will and in spite of my anger, some of the strength of that old desire broke on through. It was like a ravine lined with slippery memories had opened below me and I was trying to keep myself from falling in. It struck me that Miquel was the person who had believed in August Valentine the most, and even though August didn’t exist anymore, he was an even more powerful symbol of the man I wanted to be, because now he was a man I could never be. Miquel still thought of me as August. And he had loved August.