Uncross My Heart

by Andrews

  “I’m sorry.” Vivienne looked genuinely sad.

  “But finally I became bored with my own self-pity and took a long walk by the bay, where I happened to sit down on a bench next to, of all things, an Episcopal priest. He wasn’t wearing a collar so I didn’t know.

  We started talking about life, and when I told him about my protesting and the betrayal of my partner, he said, ‘Sometimes the only way to fight for what you believe is to dive into the belly of the beast. You might think about continuing your battle from inside the church. Isn’t that where the enemy is?’ His blue eyes sparkled and for the first time I laughed, telling him I couldn’t become a priest in order to attack the church. He said, ‘The church is big enough to take care of herself. She will either win you over or you will make her a better woman.’

  “I felt amazingly happy after that—like I understood what to do. I never learned who he was but he changed my life. I stopped marching against the church and joined it,” I said, almost laughing at myself. “My father was exceedingly proud when I entered seminary and forgave me for the past. Next to having an army chaplain in our military family, an Episcopal priest would certainly do.”

  “And that was the end of women?”

  “For a while, but no matter how I tried, whenever I felt an attraction it was for a woman.”

  “And so you punish yourself by not performing mass. Dennis told me.”

  “I took the vows—”

  “And you think all those other priests are pure as the proverbial snow. You can’t allow for humanness?”

  “I have to do what I think is right.” I played nervously with the ring on my little finger. She gently lifted my hand to examine the gold and ran her forefinger across the embossed figure of a woman, sword in hand elevated above her head in battle.

  “Who gave you this?”

  “I bought it—the famous fighting queen. She defended her kingdom against the infidels but then fell in love with their barbarous chief.”

  “Life imitates art.” Vivienne chuckled and I blushed under her teasing. She changed the subject suddenly. “The newspaper article. I wanted to prick you for not standing up, in the way that I’d read you used to.”

  “Why did that matter to you?”

  “Maybe I knew I would end up on this couch with you.”

  “And you wanted to kiss a radical?” I teased back, and my words caught her by surprise. “I do still believe the church holds people down as much as it lifts them up.”

  “But you don’t say that to anyone anymore. Maybe that’s why you’re under attack by students, administration, even yourself.”

  “And by you?”

  “The universe has a strange way of bringing its children back into alignment.”

  “Ah, so the universe is taking me in hand?”

  “Well, certainly not a punitive, judgmental, parental God. I like to think the universe is akin to the wind, blowing you here and there, sometimes softly and sometimes with great force. I believe I am a change agent for you, Alex—an opportunity, if you will only accept it.” She turned my face toward hers and kissed me. This time as if she thought I might break, dealing with me in quite a different way than she had the night she ordered me to take off my clothes. This time as if she’d decided to begin anew and consider me untouched other than by her own hand.

  “You’ve got to stop that,” I whispered, but her desire became more urgent, her efforts deboning my body until I couldn’t have stood if I’d tried.

  “You’re long overdue for love, Alex, and I’m going to make love to you until you can’t move.”

  I struggled within to push her away and gulped air as if drowning.

  “That’s what you’re offering—to be my change agent?”

  “I would be good for you.”

  I marveled at her confidence but was frightened by this woman who saw herself as more powerful than the church. “A practicing Episcopal priest cannot be a practicing homosexual. I won’t give up my life’s work simply to be an experiment.”

  “You think I see you as an experiment?”

  “Yes. Your life is full and will continue to be, with or without me. My life would change forever if I become your lover—no going back.”

  “So I’m merely a temptation in the desert. You have me in your head, and in your heart, but you won’t allow yourself to physically have me?”“Celibacy is part of—”

  “Denying the very sexuality God gave you.”

  “I know it makes no sense to you—”

  “Do you think God punished you for being a homosexual by turning your lover against you?” Her words slammed into my heart like a poisonous arrow. I looked away. Somewhere deep in my soul, I did believe that. In fact there was a time I believed it might have been a good thing, the impetus that sent me into my life’s work. How can misery be a good thing?

  When I didn’t answer she said, “So that’s that. Alexandra Westbrooke, misguided martyr. You even have the stigmata on your palm.” She got up slowly and walked to the door and down the steps and got into her car. I stood watching until the dust from her spinning wheels settled back onto the road surface, and I was melancholy. In the abstract, I believed exactly as she did, yet when it came to the flesh I turned into a religious robot, spouting platitudes about duty and tradition, and now my palm ached.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I rang Viv’s home phone early Friday morning after a sleepless night, due in part to my palm and in part to my heart. I wanted to tell her that I needed to talk to her, I didn’t want her leaving angry.

  We could still see each other, lunch, be friends. But a strange woman’s voice answered—a sleepy, sexy someone that I had awakened. I realized Vivienne must not be alone.

  I quickly hung up. “Well, that’s just damned near perfect,” I shouted to Ketch, mimicking Vivienne’s pronunciation of the word.

  Ketch stopped eating his breakfast long enough to assess my mental condition.

  I showered and dressed and, just before leaving, turned on a local TV station to check the weather and there she was—Vivienne Wilde—

  obviously pretaped and looking absolutely designer perfect, talking about her book and her upcoming signing at a local Borders. I sat down on the couch and stared at her, loving the camera angles that went in close, capturing her intelligence and beauty. Someone else is apparently enjoying that, and not me. And if she can land in bed with someone so quickly, then she’s either betraying an existing lover or has a roster of them waiting in line for the privilege. Either way, I made the right choice in not sleeping with her.

  Depressed, I dressed and headed for an early morning meeting with Hightower and the board of directors.

  As I charged down the corridor of the McGuire Building, I spotted an invitation-sized envelope stuck to my door with a pushpin.

  I approached it slowly, as if it might contain plastic explosives, and Robbie Renthrow, whose academic path seemed to collide with my corridor, whipped by, books in hand, then paused to watch me open the flowery piece of stationery.

  “Wow, flowers, cards.” He whistled and winked at me before sliding on down the hallway. I made a mental note to check his denomination—Unitarian, I was betting.

  I unlocked the door and this time bolted it behind me before examining the note. It read, Coming back to town this week and would love a private evening with you. Lyra.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I said to no one as I tore the note into small pieces and tossed it in my trash can, embarrassed over the female attention. It had to be the vibrations I was emitting. The universe must know I’m lusting after a woman, and now it’s sending me dozens of them as if they’re simply a commodity.

  Using a small mirror in the bookcase, I checked to see that I looked decent, then opened my desk drawer and took out the large cross made of black onyx and silver that my mother had worn years ago. I put it around my neck, letting it hang between my breasts. It always appeared official and pious and matched my black outfit. Feeling relig
iously buttressed, I slung a military-cut black jacket over my shoulders and marched out the door to brief the board of directors.

  When I arrived at Hightower’s door, Eleonor redirected me to the opposite end of the hall where the board was already in session.

  “Just knock, honey, but not too loud. You don’t want to startle that flock of rare birds.” She laughed at her own joke and her humor relaxed me a bit. I seldom if ever saw the board, certainly never all seven members at once.

  Taking a deep breath, I strode to the end of the marble corridor and knocked on the large mahogany door. A few seconds passed and then the door opened, as if by magic, into a huge room with two-inch-thick navy blue carpet and a long, polished maroon board table. Around the table sat four of the board members, those who could gather on quick notice, I imagined. Hightower thanked me for coming and introduced me to each man as if we’d never met.

  William Pendergast was a paunch-bellied man in pin stripes and with a white head of hair that extended down his cheek and up over his lip and fell off the end of his chin in an unending exhibition of robust hair growth. He nodded at me.

  Vance Shepherd was a tall, dark-haired rail of a man who had a nervous tic that jiggled his right shoulder up and down as he spoke, and that particular part of his anatomy activated as he greeted me.

  Hightower was seated at the right hand of Claridge’s own money messiah, Roger Thurgood Sr., a man of about my height, twenty years older than I, whose clothing, glasses, wristwatch, and fountain pen signaled he had so much money that he’d long ago begun to use cash instead of manners to connect with people, as he made no attempt to smile, greet me, or offer any of the other formalities. He was no doubt deciding how to get his grandson out of this mess.

  I was asked to be seated and to communicate what had happened in my office with “young Roger,” as they dubbed him, a sign that he was being cast as a youthful innocent.

  After I breezed through a quick and literal account of the event, Roger Thurgood Sr. asked me how my hand was doing. I said it was an unpleasant remembrance of the stigmata, which drew a chuckle, while my mind drifted back to Vivienne and how, when she’d said those words, they weren’t funny but painful.

  The telling complete, I listened as Hightower explained that they were trying to decide what to do about Roger, and obviously what I wanted done factored into that. Was I intending to file charges? Did I want him dismissed from the school? Did I want him to receive counseling? Did I think this would negatively impact his completion of seminary?

  The meeting seemed to center not on Roger, or school policy, or what the board felt was appropriate, but merely on how far I was willing to go on behalf of my stabbed palm.

  “The issue here rests with the medical doctors. His medication was obviously off,” Vance Shepherd said as I watched his shoulder tic away, making me think his was as well.

  “My attorneys are looking into that. So, Dr. Westbrooke, let’s cut to it,” Thurgood snapped, using an unfortunate turn of phrase. “You are tenured so we can’t hurry that process along. What else can we do for you—to ease your pain and settle this matter quickly, assuring that you will withdraw any further charges, commentary, et cetera?”

  “What are your plans for Roger?” I asked.

  “The same plans I have always had—that he become a minister.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, and Hightower coughed into his hand to get my attention and let me know I was about to nuke our funding.

  “Because of one medical incident?” Thurgood bit into his words.

  “Because a congregation has a right to know if they’re being led by Edward Scissorhands,” I said dryly, reminding myself of the way I used to take on dissenters in San Francisco.

  “You see yourself as quite the humorist, don’t you?” Thurgood said.

  “I see myself as the only person in this room who isn’t trying to cover up Roger’s egregious, unlawful, and harmful behavior.” A fire was igniting inside me that hadn’t been fanned in decades—a glow that seemed to roar up from my belly and into my chest and expand as I spoke.

  “May I suggest,” Pendergast boomed, causing his white mustache to flutter in the verbal wind, “that Reverend Westbrooke tell us what she does think is appropriate.” And for a moment I thought I was being addressed by the White Rabbit.

  “As leader of this seminary, Dr. Hightower should have been privy to Roger’s entire medical file when he applied for admission. I assume he was not.” I gave Hightower a look that questioned if he knew of Roger’s condition and his eyes gave him away. He did know and most likely admitted Roger in exchange for Thurgood Sr.’s financial support.

  And one day, far away from this boardroom, Roger Thurgood III may have a church, and what suffering will he cause women then, thanks to these deals made by men?

  “My opinion is that Roger should be given a psychiatric exam and counseling. And, most likely, he should not be graduated as a ministerial student or be ordained in any denomination,” I said.

  “And what does that leave him?” Pendergast gratuitously asked, since he knew full well Thurgood could call any seminary, make a donation, and ensure his grandson’s graduating.

  “A life he can choose to devote to good works outside of leading a church, or perhaps he would be suited to a military career in weaponry,” I said, to jab them.

  “Anything else?” Thurgood asked, his voice a veritable storm.

  “Yes. I’m curious. We have a student who threatened to kill me, and you are fighting to keep him. We had a professor whose only crime was that he loved another adult male, and you dismissed him. Did anyone here stand up for Emerson as you’re standing up for Roger?”

  All eyes turned to Thurgood, whose eyes were locked on me.

  Finally he addressed me in a firm, edgy voice.

  “That’s a board matter, Dr. Westbrooke, and doesn’t concern you. Please go back to your classes and continue the work you’re doing. We’ll mop up.”

  Before exiting, I took one last look around the room at the stony faces and was struck by the irony that these religious men would hide any truth and dim any light to support Thurgood, who financially supported their seminary, which spiritually supported their God…who was known as the truth and the light.

  * * *

  Dennis was waiting for me downstairs, his black cassock flapping about him like the wings of a distressed bat.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “How did you get Vivienne’s phone number?”

  “I found it on your caller ID. I knew she’d want to know you were in the ER.”

  “Sorry, I forgot I’m not speaking to you.” I stormed off.

  “She has it for you. She said leave it to her to be interested in a closeted cleric. Why aren’t you speaking to me?” he said, addressing two topics at once.

  “‘Interested.’ What does that mean?”

  “Nope, you first. Why aren’t you speaking to me?”

  “God, you’re maddening.” I stopped to glower into his face. “I’m not speaking to you because you’re a—a—traditionalist.” I spat the word at him as if it were evil, attributing my own shortcomings to him.

  “You can’t even baptize a baby, for God’s sake, without checking to see if the pope approves.”

  “The baby is doing pretty well, by the way. I followed up with Angela.”

  “Big of you, following up and all. But for God’s sake, don’t try to help the baby get into heaven. Listen to me, get into heaven. Ha. Like it’s a rock concert and we all need tickets.”

  “She’s really got you wound up.”

  “A lot of things have me wound up. Including being stabbed by a fricking student.”

  “Yes, that was bad,” Dennis muttered in an understated way.

  “Bad? Here’s what’s bad. The board thinks I’m the problem.”

  “I can see how the board would think that. I mean, put yourself in their place.”

  “No, you put yourself i
n their place, which should be easy because you’re just like them.”

  “What did Vivienne Wilde say to you?”

  “She wants to have a relationship with me. She wants to sleep with me. She wants to have sex with me. How does that grab your ecclesiastical shorts?” I shouted in a stage whisper.

  “That’s pretty much what she told me. I think you should do it.”

  His voice was quiet.

  I stopped short and let that response register, then shook my head like a dog in the sprinkler. “Has everyone gone mad?”

  “Stop being a priest for a minute and be a person.” I heard him plaintively in the background.

  “That was my advice to you when you wouldn’t baptize the baby. It didn’t work for you either.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The stress of the board meeting left me exhausted. Stress created a time warp for me, where thousands of bad things seemed to have taken place in ten seconds.

  In a daze, I trudged across campus on this Friday morning to continue my series on sexuality and the church. My class was SRO, being the closest thing to a theological sex-education course available.

  I stood at the front of the room eyeing the clergy-to-be and wondered how many would be happy at the business of religion and how many would merely be good at it.

  “If we track sexuality throughout the ages, we find that in the pre-Christian era, the control of sex, or creating rules for sex, generally followed a pattern of land ownership. In pagan times a matrilineal society existed, women ruled,” I said, and the class shifted in their seats.

  “Matrilineal inheritance of land was simple. You knew who should inherit the land by watching which children came out of the woman’s body. The men’s ‘work-around’ to this inheritance problem was to take ownership of the women, and their children, in order to take ownership of the land. And when women contested that tactic, one could say men recrafted religious law to keep women in line. The Bible was continually redacted to make sure men were in control.”