by William Poe
Simon and Blaine often found themselves in the student union at the same time. When Simon took afternoon strolls along the creek that flowed through campus, he would see Blaine walking the same path. Simon knew the encounters weren’t coincidental.
One pleasant afternoon, as a breeze rustled the leaves just beginning to fall from the oaks that populated the campus grounds, Simon bought a sack lunch at the student union cafeteria and took it to the creek, laying out his food on the redwood picnic table where he’d once perched with his friend Stanley to talk about the acid trips they had shared the prior weekend. Simon always made extra effort to engage Stanley in conversation because his friend too often secluded himself—a personality trait that had turned a hundred and eighty degrees when Stanley joined Sun Myung Moon’s church and enticed Simon to follow his example. Simon had been impressed by the personality change following Stanley’s conversion. Overnight, Stanley had transformed into a smiling, joyous person, no longer sullen and morose.
“This is a nice spot, isn’t it?” Blaine asked, dispelling Simon’s reverie.
“Nearly twenty years ago, I came here for lunch with a friend. It often seems as though my life is a spiral of recurring events. Déjà vu all over again, one might say.”
“This is my first time to take college courses,” Blaine confessed. “I should have attended in my twenties.”
“You look so young, Blaine.”
Simon expected Blaine to tell him his age, but Blaine played coy. “Have you been to the ballet?” he asked.
“Not here in Little Rock. I saw Giselle at the Palais Garnier once, but I have to admit that I fell asleep as soon as it started. The hypnotic flow of the dances and all. A friend told me that you dance professionally.”
The comment seemed to disturb Blaine. Simon added desperately, “We don’t have to talk about dancing.”
Blaine sat down, his demeanor brightening as he tossed pebbles into the slow-moving stream. Eventually he said, “I’m older than I look.”
“I want to know more about you, Blaine. You mentioned once that you’d like to have dinner—as long as it was just between friends.”
“Let’s set a day soon,” Blaine said. “For now, I need to get to the studio. I work best when no one is around.”
That night, Simon kept thinking about Blaine while guiltily hugging the picture of Thad and him at the beach.
Thad, my love, he thought. Where are you? What is going on with you?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Simon’s studies in anthropology distracted him from worry about Thad and deepened his confidence that leaving Sun Myung Moon’s group had been the right thing to do—obvious to everyone who knew him, but guilt over having betrayed his faith and abandoning his wife still troubled his conscience. If only he had paid greater attention to his first anthropology professor and developed a deeper understanding of the scientific method, he might have been able to discern supposition and guesswork from supportable hypotheses; he might have understood the deficiencies of the Divine Principle and recognized that ideas based on assertion cannot be supported. How impressed his young mind had been with the group’s lecture on the parallels of history, which led—it seemed inevitably—to knowledge of the specific date for the appearance of the new messiah, and also whom it was. The magnitude of assumptions about the existence of a God, the reality of a fall from grace, that something called sin affected human behavior, not to mention acceptance of the supremacy of Christian beliefs over all others, now overwhelmed Simon when he thought about it. Though he found the ideas empty, he realized that cold intellect was no balm for a lonely heart.
Simon had joined Sun Myung Moon’s fold because he thought he had found an international family to which he could belong—a place to be happy, to thrive. He joined because the group offered an escape from being gay, a way to avoid his fear that he’d never have a happy life if he tried to be himself. Acceptance of a creator god, belief in the primeval taint of sin, adherence to a set of revelatory authorities that pointed to Sun Myung Moon and his wife as the true parents of humankind seemed an equitable trade for his freedom. The irony, he recognized, was that he had been misguided from the start. Life isn’t about happiness at any cost; life is about creating the best circumstances one can, given what one has to work with. Simon gave himself permission to love, to pursue his art and his education; he accepted the right to be himself despite what others wanted from him. Science made sense, and that was what Simon needed most—for his life to make sense.
Simon smiled thinking about his conversation with Dean and his friend Allie. For all the intellectual intrigue they’d touched upon when arguing for and against the need for supernatural beliefs, none of it mattered as he tried to sleep at night—he missed Thad! Save for the company of the lively Cicero and the braying Ferdinand, Simon felt more alone than he had at any point in his life. He despaired that his relationship with Thad could be reaching its conclusion. If so, he preferred it to end with a sense of finality, not as it was now, frozen in time, relegated to an aching void.
The highlight of Simon’s day was his return to the mansion, the moment when he reached into the mailbox, felt for letters, and, violating his newfound atheism, prayed for a Dear John letter, even a ransom demand from the Spaniards—something!
One afternoon, as Simon exited the library and headed to the student union, he spotted Blaine, who appeared thinner, though little time had passed since they last spoke.
“Blaine, wait up,” Simon called out. “You haven’t been around lately.”
“I hit a rough spot,” Blaine replied cryptically as Simon caught up with him.
“Can I help in any way?” Simon couldn’t imagine what Blaine meant by a rough spot.
“Just a lot of personal stuff.”
“Sorry to pry,” Simon pressed, “but you’ve lost weight. Is your health okay?”
The light in Blaine’s eyes, which had flashed so brightly when he’d danced at the club, now seemed devoid of luster. Blaine started to say something but held back.
“You have my phone number,” Simon reminded. “I’m at home any evening.”
A smile briefly appeared, then faded.
That night, worried about Blaine, Simon called his number but got the answering machine. He left a message saying he looked forward to dinner sometime soon.
Simon stretched the hallway phone into his room before going to bed, an act that now served as ritual, dampening the ache in his heart as he hoped for a call from Thad. The phone rang just before dawn. Simon eagerly jumped to answer, but he heard nothing but the background noises of a crowded bar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“You should visit Vivian,” Connie chided as she worked in the kitchen while Simon brewed teabags to pour over ice for a fresh pitcher of the Southern necessity. She and Derek had come by the mansion when Simon confessed to living on microwave meals, canned foods, and the occasional pizza.
“It’s hard to see Vivian in that place. I think about Mandy and how she spent her final years withering away.”
“Bobwhite isn’t the same as it was,” Connie offered.
“Yes, but even if they cleaned up the facility, it’s tragic seeing men and women parked in wheelchairs, waiting to die. Just take me out and shoot me like an old horse.”
Connie grimaced as she stirred a pot of boiling potatoes, replaced the lid, and took a seat at the dinette table opposite Simon. Derek, entertaining himself by watching sports on the parlor television, bellowed a whoop as his team scored.
“Please don’t be like that,” Connie pleaded, recalling how close Simon had come to ending his life when he first arrived in rehab and one of his fellows had ridiculed him for being gay. Simon had threatened to jump from the nearby railroad bridge spanning the Arkansas River as a train approached. Simon never forgot the sound of Connie’s voice calling to him, “Brother!”
“Suicide might be preferable to living in one’s own filth.”
“You have to trust in God.
” Connie stated the proclamation as much to convince herself as to guide Simon. “If we live to that point in our life, there must be a reason for it. Maybe it’s God’s will to test a family’s love for one another.”
“Really, Connie? That makes sense to you?”
“What else should I believe?” Connie asked, perplexed that anyone could see life’s events as anything but God’s will.
Simon dreaded such a discussion with Connie, sorrowful that he had gone from fanatical believer in Sun Myung Moon’s divinity, convinced that Connie’s Jesus had failed to create the kingdom of heaven on earth, to eventual atheism. He recalled Connie’s and Derek’s disappointment when he’d first arrived in Sibley after leaving the group and informed them that he had not come back to be a Christian. Simon had had no answer when Connie asked, “What are you, then?” Only recently had he come to see the question as irrelevant. To be human is to love, he thought now. Without love we are dead. That is what we are, creatures capable of love.
Still, God’s will?
“Let me put it this way, Connie. How do you discern God’s will from random events?”
“You believed in a man who said he was God. How did you know that was true? I have two thousand years of faith to depend upon—the faith of people who sacrificed their lives in order to believe. If the Bible wasn’t true—if, as Paul said, Jesus wasn’t resurrected—then I am a fool for believing.”
Connie’s response made Simon wonder if she and Derek had primed themselves for such a question. “Yes, but I admit to being a fool for believing in Sun Myung Moon,” he said. “Two thousand years from now, there may be people who still believe in Sun Myung Moon; his descendants might even rule the planet. But they will be just as wrong then as they are now. If the durability of beliefs is the measure of truth, we should all be Hindu.”
Connie held her glass of iced tea close to her lips and gingerly sipped from the rim. “Jesus loves you,” Connie sighed. “You try so hard not to believe. It’s obvious to me that Jesus lives—I feel joy praising him when times are good and find comfort when I suffer difficulties. When Lenny was on his deathbed, I knew our savior would greet him in heaven, that Lenny would be free of pain in the loving arms of Jesus. How could it not be?”
“That just doesn’t work for me, Connie. This life is all we have, and I want to make the most of it.”
Connie reached across the table and tenderly placed her hand on Simon’s. She had listened to his words but believed they came from his sense of loss, not from his understanding. “Losing Lenny was hard on you, Simon. I’m sorry he never said how much he loved you.”
“Believe what you like, Connie. I am fine with it. For me, whether God exists or doesn’t exist isn’t relevant—other than a topic for debate.”
Derek yelled out another whoop from the other room.
“You and Derek are happy,” Simon continued. “You have beautiful daughters, you go to church, and you enjoy being part of the community. The words you read in the Bible comfort you. You are satisfied with the story of your faith. You just have to accept that it isn’t for me.”
“How do you know the right way to live if you don’t read the Bible and you don’t pray?” Connie asked.
Simon remembered his boyhood—to be an atheist in Sibley was to hail from Zenon.
“Consider this, Connie. People lived for hundreds of thousands of years before anyone ever heard of the Hebrew God or the Christian Jesus. Humans who cooperate survive, and those who sow discord die away. Caring about each other comes naturally. If you weren’t a Christian and I wasn’t an atheist—if we just sat down to a meal and talked about our relationships—we would find much in common. People are driven apart by ideas—perhaps the biggest risk evolution introduced.”
“You should get back to your roots,” Connie asserted. “Come to church with us.”
Derek entered the room with a curious look on his face. “I’m not sure if the kitchen aromas brought me in or whether it was the conversation I overheard on the way.”
“Simon was telling me how he’s still searching for Jesus,” Connie summarized.
Derek placed rough hands, the hands of a carpenter, squarely on Simon’s shoulders. “You’ll come around, Simon. I’ll bet you find the Lord before your mother passes. Vivian may enter grace first, but you will discover your faith and follow her to glory.”
“When Vivian dies, I will grieve because she’s gone. I want to acknowledge the finality of that loss, not mask it with the idea that some part of her still exists.”
“I find that a sad thing to believe,” Connie said. “My prayer is that the Holy Spirit will touch your heart.”
“Amen,” Derek agreed.
“I’ll be on the lookout,” Simon offered sarcastically.
“Faith doesn’t always make life easier to bear, but the glory that awaits is worth the struggle.” Derek’s expression shifted from glower to benevolence as he spoke.
Connie ran the mixer to mash the boiled potatoes as Simon and Derek set the table. Simon hoped the meal would encourage the bond their words threatened to destroy.
Simon observed Connie and Derek as they performed the simple act of passing the salt and pepper, giving each other a look that spoke of a deep connection, of abiding love—a relationship supported by family and friends, by their community of believers.
Vivian had averted her eyes when she thought Simon and Thad might be sneaking a kiss. If Simon and Thad as much as held hands at Sibley’s grocery store, they might not make it home in one piece. “If God is love, why is some love wrong?” Simon recalled asking long ago. The same beliefs that provided comfort to Connie and Derek had always been a threat to Simon’s happiness.
“I hope you go to visit Vivian,” Derek said, taking a bite of peach cobbler topped with homemade vanilla ice cream. “Connie and I went to see her yesterday. She misses you.”
“I will,” Simon promised.
“She really does miss you,” Connie added for emphasis. “She fades in and out, but she’s still our Vivian.”
“When is Thad coming back?” Derek asked. “He’s been in California a long time, hasn’t he?”
“Too long,” Simon responded. Simon wanted to tell Connie and Derek about his worries—that Thad might be in trouble or that he might be ending their relationship for Felipe, but he didn’t trust they would understand.
“Call us if you’d like to go to church on Sunday,” Connie said as if their discussion hadn’t happened.
“Thanks, Connie. I know you mean well by offering.”
Derek shook his head almost imperceptibly, signaling for Connie not to keep pressing.
Simon wished he and his family had more in common, that they could speak honestly. For now, sitting down to a meal was family enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Painting proved to be Simon’s one source of comfort, allowing him to explore anxieties he barely considered consciously. A recently begun work consumed much of his time: a vertical canvas depicting a man engulfed in flames and holding the hand of a naked adolescent who stood in the foreground as if waiting for permission to enter our world. Simon stepped back, pondering whether or not to darken the background, but he realized he needed to distract himself in order to free his intuition as to how to proceed. Simon opened a box of photos stacked beside his painting supplies and took out several images from the day with Thad at Zuma Beach. Simon placed the photos side by side on a bench, reminiscing on a happy afternoon, a day that seemed as distant as a past life. Sadness prevented him from returning to work on the painting, so he went back inside the mansion to call Los Angeles, hoping that maybe Twiggy had some news. But Twiggy, drunk from his habit of giving a customer two drinks for a single and swigging the second one himself under the guise of a toast, expressed annoyance at the call and shouted that Don was gone for the evening. Simon knew he wouldn’t remember the call, so he didn’t concern himself about the reaction. Simon then dialed Scott, thinking that Thad might have been in contact
in order to relay a message, but Scott insisted that he knew nothing about Thad. Simon believed him, if for no other reason than that Scott was drunker than Twiggy had been. Scott was unable to refrain from gossip, and if he had heard even a hint about Thad, he would have said.
Cicero, growing impatient with being ignored, clambered into the parlor and leaped into Simon’s lap as he went through more pictures from his days in Hollywood, and they slid like playing cards onto the rug. Simon hugged his ever-loyal terrier and scooped up the photos. He and Cicero sat comfortably together until the grave silence of the mansion was broken by the clang of the 1950s telephone on the side table as it disharmonized with the purr of the Princess phone ringing in concert on the kitchen wall. It was Blaine.
“How about Friday night?” Blaine invited. “Let’s meet for dinner at the Oyster Bar.”
Simon knew that the Oyster Bar restaurant was renowned as a location for a romantic rendezvous, a quaint establishment whose advertisements played into the common belief in oysters as an aphrodisiac, one ad depicting a man and woman, arms intertwined, placing an oyster on the half shell against the lips of the other.
“Sounds nice,” Simon responded, making great effort to keep from feeling as if Thad were listening on the other phone, even though Simon was sure, despite the choice of venue, that Blaine simply needed a friend.
Friday after class, Simon changed into tattered Jordache jeans and a baby-blue polo shirt and rehearsed what he might do if Blaine made a pass. Simon arrived early at the Oyster Bar, got seated at a table, and ordered a shoestring-potato appetizer, nibbling slowly as he watched the door, growing more apprehensive as the appointed hour approached—and passed.
Finishing his shoestring potatoes, Simon ordered a plate of hush puppies and drank two gin and tonics over the course of an hour. A meal between friends, Simon had told himself. Then why did he fear Blaine wouldn’t show, and with that fear, the dread he always felt when a date stood him up? Perhaps Blaine was stuck in traffic, or worse, an accident had sent him to the hospital.
