The Preacher's Son

by Lisa Henry

  “Are you a happier man?” Jason Banning’s voice in his head was sharper than it had been in person. Mocking.

  Before Jason, Nate had been able to delude himself into believing that those strange feelings he got toward other boys, those urges, meant nothing. Jason had made him face the truth, in the most terrible way.

  No. He was not a happier man than before he’d met Jason.

  But he was a happier man now than he would have been if he’d done what he’d so desperately wanted that night, and lived his life against God’s plan. Wasn’t he?

  “Um, Nate?” Isaac wiggled his fingers on the surface of the water.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m really sorry about before.” Isaac's face was bright red. “About, um, Tyler’s phone.”

  Nate smiled ruefully. Not even the worst thing that had happened to him today. “It really is okay. I mean, not that you guys were looking at that stuff, because you’re kids, you know? But I don’t hide from my past.”

  Couldn’t, even if I tried.

  “Oh.”

  Nate dug his toes into the muddy bottom of the lake. “It doesn’t help to hide.”

  Isaac looked at him. “So you don’t...you don’t feel things for guys anymore? At all?”

  Nate hesitated. The sky over the lake was a vibrant blue, thick clouds piled high. It reminded him of something, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than it was gone. “I do.” It didn’t help to lie. “Sometimes. But it’s a test I know I can pass.”

  He’d hoped hearing that would be a relief to Isaac—the knowledge that he didn’t have to stop having homosexual thoughts, he just had to learn not to act on them, and to find peace and fulfillment in resisting temptation. But Isaac turned away. The ends of his long hair had darkened where they’d touched the water. “And what if I don’t want to pass it?” he mumbled.

  “What do you mean?”

  Isaac turned to him again, furious. “What if the real test was being born into this bullshit religion? And the way I pass it is by accepting who I am, and—and being free?”

  Nate’s heart thudded. He’d thought the same thing, once. With Jason’s fingers drifting across his stomach, making the muscles flutter. Jason kissing him, and Nathan surprised by how strong he was. How kissing him was more aggressive, more direct, wetter, hotter, better than kissing a girl. He’d imagined coming out, telling the reverend he had a boyfriend who loved him, and that he wasn’t ashamed. “We are free here,” he told Isaac firmly. “Or we can be. If we give it a chance.”

  Isaac shook his head, looking at the horizon again. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed. He didn’t speak.

  “Please, Isaac?” Nate said softly. “Give it a chance? I didn’t think it would work for me either. I thought I was too damaged.”

  Isaac was quiet for a long time. “Is that what you think I am? Damaged?”

  “No, that’s not what I… It’s just how I felt.”

  Isaac sank into the water up to his chin and swam for shore. Nate stayed for a moment to watch the canoers—they were steadier now—then turned to head back too.

  He stopped when he caught movement in the trees a few yards from shore. Someone—no, two people. Tyler and Steven. They were laughing, shoving each other playfully. Then, as Nate watched, Tyler leaned forward and kissed Steven. Not a long kiss, but definitely familiar. Nate’s shock stilled him. For a second, he felt nothing but longing. He never kissed Marissa that way, like he knew her. No matter how many times he watched guys kissing girls in movies and tried to mimic those images, he couldn’t kiss her like it was easy. Like they were young and happy, unafraid of the future and unbothered by the past.

  Steven slapped Tyler on the shoulder, and Tyler grinned and disappeared into the trees. And then—maybe Nate imagined it—Steven turned and looked out at the lake. At Nate. Nate knew a moment’s bizarre terror. What if Steven and Tyler had staged this for him? To taunt him. Or to...to prove that Nate wasn’t healed like he claimed he was.

  But that was ridiculous. The two boys had said they were friends. Clearly they were more. This was nothing to do with Nate.

  Another instant, and Steven was gone. Nate was alone in the water, watching the kids on the shore, hearing Leanne’s calls from what sounded very far away. He wished, for just a moment, that something dark would drag him down, hold him underwater until he stopped struggling.

  And then he’d float away.

  Chapter Six

  Jason curled his hands into fists and stared at the screen. He was filling out an application to work in the darkroom at TLP Pharmacy’s one hour photo lab. Because apparently there were still people who got photos developed, instead of taking them on their phones and storing them in their fucking clouds. Jason remembered hours spent in the darkroom at UW Tacoma. The peace, the satisfaction he’d found there, watching his photos come to life. If he was going to get himself and Rose to where they didn’t rely on the Tulls’ help for groceries, he needed a job. He just didn’t know who would hire a bitter twenty-six-year-old with a shit reputation and a bum leg.

  Do you have any disabilities which may affect your ability to perform the duties as described?

  Fuck you. Aaaaaannnnnd seriously, fuck you.

  He’d tried earlier to get back in touch with Rob Hill, one of his high school classmates. They’d both gone to UW and had hung out a fair amount, even exchanged a couple of emails while Jason was in Afghanistan. But he hadn’t received a response yet.

  After lunch, he’d snagged a couple of Aunt Rose’s beers and, blurry and irritated, had dialed Zac and left a message asking if he could see Zoner. He just wanted to get a tennis ball and play fetch with the stupid dog; was that too much to ask?

  No response there either.

  “I’m a happy man, because I’m true to myself,” he muttered to the screen.

  He’d asked Nate if he was a happier man for having found the path or the light or whatever the fuck. Because he’d spent years assuming Nate was damaged goods. That someone with Nate’s upbringing didn’t have a fighting chance. And if Nate was doomed from the start, being Reverend Tull’s son, why not make him a sacrifice? Take one for the team, Nathan.

  No, it hadn’t been like that. He’d seen Nate, and he’d… Something in him had shifted. He’d been taken by surprise by Nate’s shy enthusiasm, his obvious excitement at being away from home for the weekend. Despite his nerves, Nate hadn’t been entirely clumsy or awkward. He’d been...graceful. Jason shook his head and laughed. Sure. Graceful. Why the fuck not?

  He’d seen an opportunity to do an abstract act of good. To save many people who’d never asked for his help, when he could have offered his hand to one person who’d needed him right then.

  He typed No on the application.

  Then he opened a new tab and looked up Protestantism.

  What is it, Nate? What brings you so much comfort here? What do you pray about? Dream about? Does God talk to you?

  He just couldn’t imagine Nate believing that crap. Nobody was watching. Nobody heard your prayers. You had to learn to act right out of a respect for humanity, not because of some threat of eternal punishment. The childish hope that you’d go cloud-waltzing with your dead family and friends after you died.

  A man whose hypocrisy overshadows his devotion, he’d called Reverend Tull in his article.

  The pot and the kettle and all that.

  He clicked on a Protestant church’s webpage. Scrolled past the history of the Reformation. Remembered doodling in his notebook during World History class sophomore year, sneaking glances at Mike Tran, who’d had arms like a basketball player.

  Blah, blah, blah. Catholics bad. Bible good.

  “You wanted to escape the tyranny of the Catholic church, so you became fucking tyrants in your own right,” he muttered. Hypocrites.

  He finally landed on something interesting.

  Christian comfort is the knowledge that I am not my own.

  In pride we sometimes think our own mind or stre
ngth will be able to see us through our troubles. But Christian comfort is the confession, "I am not my own."

  We need God. We need our families, our friends. We must share our burdens and let go of our pride.

  Jason leaned back. The room seemed fuzzy.

  Right, it’s all goodness and love and light, unless somebody’s gay. Or Muslim, or trans, or atheist, or non-monogamous…

  Fuck them.

  I am not my own. He tried it out.

  Sounded like a whole lot of “I don’t want to take responsibility for myself.”

  I most definitely am my own. I made choices, bad fucking choices, but they were mine. Now everyone in town wants my head on a pike and my boyfriend took my dog. So if it’s all the same to you, Protestant Church of Edmonton, I’ll try to use my own mind and strength to see me through my troubles.

  He ex-ed out and stood, stretching. He’d finish the application later.

  That evening was group prayer. The whole camp sat together on the hillside in the cooling dusk. Watched the sun disappear behind the jagged mountains and reflected. First, they prayed silently, individually. Then they faced one another and shared their thoughts, fears, and burdens.

  “My burden is that I have a crush on a girl on the swim team.” Mary Ann Staten wore her dark hair in two French braids and was built like an athlete—not a swimmer, though. Track? Softball? “Sometimes in school I get distracted thinking about her, even though I know it’s wrong.”

  “We will help you carry your burden, Mary Ann,” the camp said together.

  When Nate was seventeen, he’d developed a disdain for the camp in general, and for this part in particular. This was the kind of stuff people made fun of Christians for—group hugging and prayer and promises of chastity and salvation. Nate had started to think he’d rather be teased for being a faggot than have other kids keep making doorbell noises at him. “Good afternoon, do you have a moment to hear about the word of Jesus Christ?

  He’d wanted to separate himself from his identity as Reverend Tull’s son. And at the same time, he’d been terribly ashamed of wanting that.

  The reverend came up to Nathan after group prayer. “What do you think?” he asked, nodding at the kids who were bounding in packs around their counselors, back toward the cabins.

  “Good group,” Nate said. He ought to tell his father about Steven and Tyler kissing. That was important information, surely. If they’d come here as a couple, then the counselors would need to take extra care to separate them and focus on each boy’s individual spiritual growth.

  But Nate didn’t say anything.

  When his father had gone back to the house, Nate got in his car and drove to the lookout point. He sat at the cliff’s edge for nearly an hour, trying not to think about anything. Not Steven and Tyler, not Jason, not Isaac— “Is that what you think? That I’m damaged?”

  I know I am.

  He picked up a small, sharp rock and pressed it to the outside of his leg. Kept jamming it against his bare skin until even in the dark he could see a bruise the size of the quarter.

  He closed his eyes. Imagined a large hand catching his wrist.

  What are you doing? That voice. Soft, concerned. Familiar.

  I—I don’t know.

  Jason pushed his thumb under Nate’s fingers, uncurling them gently, until Nate dropped the rock. Don’t hurt yourself. Why would you do that? Because of me?

  I don’t know.

  Do you know anything? Jason teased in his fantasy.

  I know I’ve never stopped wanting you. How much must I hate myself, to keep wanting you even after what you did to me?

  Jason’s face grew serious. He let go of Nate’s hand, but sat closer to him, so Nate could feel his warmth. I’m sorry. I really, truly am. If I could take it all back, I would. He leaned closer, and their shoulders brushed. I don’t want you to hate yourself.

  He turned his head and kissed Nate’s temple. Nate tilted sideways, and their lips touched. And then they were kissing, and the world was hot as fire, and Nate was drowning in sin, but he didn’t hate himself. He felt free.

  When he opened his eyes, no one was there. He was gripping the rock so hard it had cut his palm. He threw it aside and got up, sweating and dizzy, his palm slick, and stumbled back to the car.

  Jason had been to the Broken Record a few times when he’d been home on breaks from school. And, all right, once in high school when he’d tried to get in with a fake ID. It was like the Hard Rock Cafe, if the Hard Rock Cafe had blown all its money on drugs and booze and wound up homeless and crazy. Exposed gray brick, records on the walls, an ancient juke box in one corner, and glistening spots of water damage on the ceiling. One of the bartenders looked fourteen and the other looked eighty-five.

  Jason sat at the eighty-five-year-old’s end of the bar. Nodded when the guy said hello but didn’t start a conversation. He wasn’t here for the small talk.

  Wasn’t supposed to be drinking with his meds either, but fuck it.

  Seriously, what was the worst thing that could happen? He’d black out and wake up back in Afghanistan?

  The bartender was wearing a silver cross on a thin chain around his neck. The thing was almost swallowed up in the folds of his wrinkled skin. It didn’t seem big enough to be a fashion statement. Rock chic or gothic or ironic or whatever. Maybe it was what it was. And maybe Jason needed to stop judging people the second he saw a sign of their faith: a cross, a fish sticker, or a biblical verse hanging on a wall. Idiots. Can’t even think for yourselves. Why do you let some book written thousands of years ago dictate the rules of your life? Because he always assumed faith was the stupider option, the lazier option, not something a person might have struggled with, something that could have been hard won.

  He bet Nate’s faith was hard won these days.

  Either that, or Nate had buried himself in so many levels of hypocrisy that he couldn’t even recognize himself anymore.

  Jason glowered at his beer and stared at the wall of memorabilia behind the bar. Faded posters for bands that had toured the area. Some of the posters dated back to the eighties. Jason didn’t know any of the bands. More broken records, with dusty, jagged edges. A couple of old 45s even. Fuck, the place was depressing. Maybe he ought to buy a six pack and go back to Rose’s. Watch TV or something, because drinking alone wasn’t really the worst option. Not when the Broken Record was in the running.

  Jason sighed. Actually, what he needed to do was finish this beer, and then hope the walk back to Rose’s didn’t cripple him.

  That was probably one of the reasons he wasn’t meant to drink on his meds. Because he couldn’t feel a fucking thing right now. He could probably tap dance all the way home. But he’d sure as hell pay for it in the morning.

  “Another one?” the bartender asked.

  “No, thanks.” Jason stood up, one hand on the bar in case that was a mistake. Just because he couldn’t feel any pain didn’t mean he trusted his leg to hold him.

  That had been the worst part. Not knowing his body’s limits anymore. Not being able to trust it, or himself. When hey, I’ll just step up here was no longer a thought that flowed seamlessly to action. When what he wanted to do and what he could do weren’t even on the same page.

  Jason headed slowly to the exit.

  Maybe he should call a taxi. It was only a few blocks–this was Pinehurst, everything was only a few blocks—but he really didn’t want to damage his leg and end up back on crutches, or worse.

  There was a small step down from the door to the sidewalk, but it was enough to cause pain to jolt through him.

  Taxi it was.

  Jason pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “Hey, mister, can you buy me some beer?”

  Jason snorted. “Go away, kid.” Then he looked. “Wait. Isaac, right?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I saw you at the diner,” Jason said. “We talked. I’m Jason. Jason Banning.”

  “Oh, right,” said Isaac, his mouth tw
isting up into a sneer. “The ‘It Gets Better’ guy.”

  “It does,” Jason said. “Just not today, I’m guessing.”

  Isaac’s sneer vanished, and for a moment he looked as achingly vulnerable as he had at the diner when he’d asked his parents why they didn’t like him.

  “I’m not going to buy you beer,” Jason said, “but I can make a call for you. Anyone you want me to phone?”

  “For what?”

  “For your great escape.” Jason nodded at the knapsack on the kid’s shoulder.

  “No. Maybe, um, maybe you can help me? I could go with you and—”

  “How old are you, Isaac?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “You can’t come anywhere with me, okay? What about your family? Is there anyone who’ll come and get you? Maybe grandparents, or an aunt or uncle?”

  “No.” Isaac jutted his chin. “It doesn’t matter. I can hitch a lift somewhere and—”

  “Listen.” Jason put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen really carefully. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not a good idea. Do you know how many gay kids end up on the streets? There are shelters, but there aren’t enough. A lot of kids end up in bad situations.”

  Isaac scowled, and Jason could see his fifteen-year-old self staring back at him. I’m tough. I can handle it. I can handle anything.

  “Those assholes at the camp, they can’t make you straight. You know it, and I know it. And there is nothing wrong with being gay.” He frowned. “And it makes me sick to even hear myself say it, but you’re safe there. Just keep them out of your head. The Jesus brigade, and your parents.”

  “That’s what Tyler said,” Isaac mumbled. “We can do what we want when we’re eighteen.”

  “He sounds like a smart kid,” Jason said.

  Isaac shuffled his feet. “He’s kind of a dick.”

  Jason held up his phone. “So. Who am I calling?”

  Isaac sighed. “The camp. I guess.”

  “If you need to get out,” Jason said, “from the camp, from your parents, there are ways. You just have to be smart about it, okay? You give me your email and I’ll put you in contact with some great support networks. But you’ve got to promise to use them, right?”