The Preacher's Son

by Lisa Henry

  Isaac let out an awkward laugh. Floated backwards a couple of feet. Nate wondered if it was hard for him, being here at the lake. If it brought back memories of camp. Of the day he was supposed to go to the lake with the other kids, but had gone to the chapel instead.

  But he trusted that his mom and Isaac had talked about it, if it needed to be talked about. And so Nate relaxed—as much as it was possible to in waters roughly the temperature of the Atlantic when the Titanic had sunk. Tried not to wonder if his dad had been invited on this outing, or if his mom had purposely kept it just the three of them.

  Was she freer out here too? Without the weight of one man’s optimism, without the burden of his unconditional kindness? Was she free to see the flaws all around her and love them, without it becoming a project? A world to be fixed?

  “It’s gonna be weird, living with my grandparents,” Isaac said suddenly, staring at the lake’s surface as though embarrassed. “I mean, I’m glad. They were always nice to me. Even after...like, after everyone found out. But I don’t know them that well.”

  “You have any problems there, you call me,” Nate’s mom said immediately. “You have my number. You call me.”

  Isaac’s cheeks colored despite the chill. “Okay.”

  Isaac didn’t say anything else, and after a while, they were all too cold to stay there.

  They swam toward the shore together.

  Jason met Molly at the diner outside of town. Molly pounded waffles like it was her job.

  “So?” she asked, drizzling another half gallon of syrup onto her plate.

  He took a deep breath. But still didn’t speak.

  She raised her brows. “You said you wanted to meet. And I sure fucking hope it’s because now’s our chance. The camp’s closing. People are starting to get their heads out of their asses. I say we do the piece where you interview me. I talk about all the shit I suffered there. You write all eloquently and shit about that kid’s suicide attempt. Don’t name him for fuck’s sake—I assume you’ve learned a thing or two over the years, but just making sure. We show people how much damage has been done, and then we put out a call to ban conversion therapy in this state. In all states, but we might have to start local.”

  Jason took a bite of his eggs. Washed it down with OJ. Disgusting. He picked up his coffee and made things worse.

  “I don’t know,” he began.

  “What don’t you know?” Molly asked brusquely.

  “Molly, I believe in what you’re saying. I really do. I want conversion therapy banned. I want to help the kids who are being put through this barbaric shit. But I don’t want to write about the camp again.

  She opened her mouth.

  “Hear me out,” he pleaded. “I’m not saying I’m ever gonna be chummy with Reverend Tull. But I hurt his son. I hurt his son far worse than I ever realized. They’re doing the right thing. They’re closing the camp. Nate’s already getting hounded by the media. I don’t want to do anything that—that makes it harder for him to get the privacy he’s entitled to.”

  “This isn’t about Nate,” Molly insisted. “This is about kids who are being hurt everywhere.”

  “I know. And there’s already enough of a spotlight on the camp. People are taking notice. They’re having these discussions.”

  “Not nationally. In Pinehurst, sure. Even in Washington. But the camp’s closing isn’t national news. It’ll come up in the Google feeds of people who already follow LGBTQ news. It got a passing mention on CNN. But this is still too small.”

  “Nobody’s gonna want to hear from me about it.”

  “It can be fair, like you said. That could be what redeems you, you know? A fair, compassionate article that still makes clear what our endgame is.”

  It was tempting. The idea of redemption. But he couldn’t even imagine broaching the subject with Nate. Look, um, I know the last time I wrote an article about Moving Forward, it didn’t work out so hot. But I was thinking maybe I’d give it another go… “No,” he said carefully. “This isn’t my story.”

  “It’s cowardly to walk away.” Her waffles were a soggy, half-eaten mess. “It’s cowardly to let one mistake ruin your life, and it’s cowardly to be silent when you have power and privilege and influence. Maybe you owe people an explanation, did you ever think of it that way? Not just Nate. Maybe you owe it to the world.”

  “I don’t owe anyone anything!” he snapped. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the perpetual ache he seemed to live with now. “I’ve paid. Okay? I paid in Afghanistan. And I’m paying now, watching my aunt die. I pay every fucking time I see the scar on Nate’s wrist. I do not owe you. I do not owe ‘the world.’ The only one I owe anything to is Nate. And what I owe him is the choice I failed to give him before. The privacy he’s been denied over and over again.” Jason’s voice grew ragged. “Trotted out like a show animal by his father, for each new group of kids. Forced to fucking perform, to use his suffering to contribute to theirs. To deny who he was, and ask them to deny who they were. To defend his father, and that fucking disease of a camp…” He trailed off, throat burning, breathing ragged.

  Molly smiled dully. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  She was right. He’d never fully be rid of the anger. The disgust he felt for the grown-ass adults who drove LGBTQ kids to self-destruction with their hypocrisy and their bullshit. This wasn’t over because Moving Forward was closed. This wasn’t over because Nate claimed to forgive Jason. This was a fight that would take years, decades, centuries to finish—if humanity lasted that long.

  So what to do with that anger?

  It wasn’t enough to bury himself in this relationship with Nathan and shut out the larger world.

  But at the same time, he was just one person.

  Any one person who thought they knew the answers, who thought it was their responsibility to corral the thoughts and beliefs of others and shape them in their own image…

  Was a hypocrite. A danger.

  An idiot.

  He looked at Molly. Made sure his voice was steady when he spoke. “I would like to write something. Some day. When I’m ready. And once I’ve checked with Nate to see if he’s okay with my apology and explanation being public. And in the meantime, I do plan on finding something to do to help. I’m sorry I missed your protest. But maybe you and I can start investigating other options. Charities. Other peaceful demonstrations. Try to get something on a ballot.”

  Her jaw was still set tight, and there was a sheen to her eyes.

  He went on. “I hope you tell your story. Whenever and however you feel comfortable telling it. But I’m not going to write about you, or Isaac, or Nate. Or even Reverend Tull. I am a coward; always have been. Sorry if you thought differently.” He got up, tossing a twenty down on the table. “I have to run, but, like I said, I’m open to any ideas you have that don’t involve me writing a takedown of Moving Forward.”

  She wasn’t speaking. He’d pissed her off royally. Or disappointed her in some tremendous way. It hurt a little, to know that. But he had to make choices for himself. The way Nate had. He needed to learn, slowly, to trust his own judgment again.

  With a sigh, he started to go.

  “I didn’t say you were a coward.” Her voice was clear but a little unsteady behind him. He stopped. “I said backing away was cowardly. There’s a difference.”

  “Okay,” he said, still facing the exit.

  “I don’t think you’re a coward. For what it’s worth.”

  He turned. The anger was mostly gone from her expression. She took a deep breath.

  “That doesn’t mean I think you were right. What you did to Nate. But there was a lot of good in that article. If you hadn’t paired it with some National Enquirer-level sleaze, I’ll bet you actually would have raised, like, a shitton of awareness.”

  He glanced around uncomfortably. People were starting to stare. “Molly—”

  She was up out of the booth, stepping toward him. “I could see the goo
d you were trying to do. Like, I can see that about you, and I kind of think...I’m the same way. Like, I’m so angry and such a fuckup. But there’s gotta be some good in me.”

  “Of course there is.” They were inches apart now. Jason towered over her, which felt weird. “Look, is this the part where I say some cheesy thing about how everybody makes mistakes and we’re all in this together and there’s, like, a little ray of sunshine in everyone?”

  “No, dumbass. This is where you hug me goodbye.”

  She put her arms around him. He tensed, startled, then hugged her back.

  “I’m getting the fuck out of Pinehurst. But I’ll be in touch.”

  “Let’s get something on a ballot,” he said.

  “Something on a ballot,” she agreed, stepping back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nate was with Jason when Jason started a new round of physical therapy, with a therapist who took a holistic approach to pain management. Yoga. Pilates. Acupuncture. Jason groaned about “hippie mumbo-jumbo,” and Nate teased him about sounding ninety. Nate read magazines in the waiting area during Jason’s sessions, and he kept after Jason to do his exercises at home.

  He was with Jason when Rose passed. The two of them side-by-side for a short, ecumenical memorial service, and for the scattering of her ashes in the backyard. He watched the wind carry them, and wondered what to say. He was so used to being able to rely on “She’s in a better place.” “She’s with God now.” “It was God’s plan.” Statements he truly believed. But what did you say to someone who didn’t believe? You could quote Ray Bradbury at him. But it still wasn’t coming from you.

  So he didn’t speak. But he was with Jason. For days and nights after Rose’s death. Jason staring out the window, drinking coffee. Jason with his head in Nate’s lap. Jason kissing Nate furiously, with tears in his eyes.

  Nate, gently taking the coffee away, replacing it with herbal tea. Nate, stroking Jason’s hair. Taking his wrists without any force, and guiding him into a gentler kiss, a kiss that was an anchor rather than an escape.

  And Jason was with Nate when Isaac’s grandparents came to pick Isaac up. When he gave Nate an awkward hug goodbye, then stuck out his hand to Jason. When Jason said, “I’m sorry I steered you wrong,” and Isaac flinched, then shrugged. Then hugged Jason.

  Jason was with Nate when the reverend surveyed the empty cabins and spoke, half to himself and half to them, about what he might do with the land now. Jason was silent, but there. He was with Nate when Nate’s mom filed for divorce and took her maiden name back. When Nate lay awake in bed, recounting his parents’ relatively amicable goodbye, and his own efforts to forget what he’d been taught about divorce being a sin.

  “She deserves a life of her own,” he said, and felt Jason squeeze his hand.

  Jason was with Nate when the internet picked up the rumor that “disgraced journalist” Jason Banning was now dating the man he’d once filmed without permission. He forced Nate off the computer so Nate couldn’t give himself panic attacks over the various social media posts: “That’s so fucked up” or “maybe the whole thing was staged,” or “awww, what a cute ending.”

  Together, they learned the art of existing side by side, in silence or in laughter or in tears. Of letting something grow between them that was stronger than the past, that fanned out over top of old memories—still allowing glimpses, never choking or fully covering their old selves, but giving them a new beauty to admire.

  After a year, they began to talk about leaving Pinehurst. Nate was interested in school—he’d gotten some of his req’s out of the way at the community college. Jason was considering graduate work.

  “Not sure what good it would do me,” he grumbled.

  “You’d be qualified to teach,” Nate pointed out.

  “Yeah. Can you imagine me with kids? Jesus.”

  Nate grinned. “They’re not kids. They’re young adults. They’ll be all arrogant and full of ambition. You’ll love them.”

  “We’ll see,” Jason said skeptically. But he kept looking at programs.

  When they left, it was together. Nate to Whitworth University, and Jason to a job with World Relief Spokane. Nate traveled back to Pinehurst most weekends to visit his father and mother. His father was still taking the divorce hard, but he’d been doing some consulting for ministers throughout the region seeking information on how to connect with the LGBTQ members of their congregations and make them feel welcome. The reverend himself was not always welcome in those circles, but he continued to try to use his mistakes to educate others. He often sought Nate’s advice. He often sought Nate’s advice.

  Together, one night, they looked through some of Jason’s old photos. Of his parents. Of Rose. Of Zac and Zoner. Of UW Tacoma’s campus. They came to Jason’s photographs of the Russell T. Joy building. Nate’s heart caught a moment. He remembered their first kiss outside that building. How he’d been startled by the rasp of Jason’s stubble against his chin. How his entire body had flooded with a need that had scared and thrilled him.

  He’d thought a lot lately about the night they’d first slept together. How caring Jason had been. Nate, a scared idiot, and Jason so calm, soothing him. In the aftermath, he’d wondered if that had been a lie. All part of the ruse. But he didn’t think it was. You could care about somebody even as you hurt them. Kindness and cruelty weren’t always as far apart as they seemed.

  He hated that he’d been stupid enough to think he loved Jason after just one night. But he understood the feeling better now: a fierce, bursting devotion for somebody who gave you courage. Who made you see yourself in a new way.

  Jason stared at the photo on the screen: the building on a sunny afternoon, students walking by, reflected in the enormous windows. They were in the foreground, and yet somehow the angle Jason had chosen made you certain that the building was the subject, not the students.

  If Jason was remembering the same thing Nate was, he gave no indication. “I always loved that building,” he said.

  “What do you love about it?” Nate glanced at him. Reached out to scratch at a tiny scab on Jason’s throat where he’d nicked himself shaving two days ago.

  “Don’t do that,” Jason said automatically, catching Nate’s hand. Then turning it palm up and kissing it.

  He sat back. “I dunno. Sounds corny, but I liked that it was so many different things to so many different people.”

  “It’s seen a lot,” Nate agreed.

  “Not just that.” Jason rubbed his head the way he did when he was trying to piece together what we wanted to say. “Maybe it’s more...like, I’m fascinated by how we adapt. Once, I was traveling the world with my parents. Then I was in Pinehurst, being a moody little bitch, wanting to escape. Then I was all over the world again, backpacking like a typical shiftless millennial. Then I was at Tacoma. Then Afghanistan. Back in Pinehurst. Now Spokane. And in each of those places, it was like...this is my life now. This is so, wholly my life. Sometimes I missed other places. But I threw myself into each new place. Each new life became normal.” He paused. “I lost my train of thought.”

  “The building.”

  “Right. The building. And all of its new normals. I like that whatever it was, it was completely and totally what it was. You know?”

  Nate laughed and leaned to knock his forehead against Jason’s shoulder. “You wordsmith, you.”

  “Shut up. Now it’s a candy factory. Now it’s making hats. Now wagons. And you don’t ever know what’s next, and that’s cool. That’s cool as fuck. Quit snotting on me.” He lightly slapped the back of Nate’s head as Nate snorted into his shirt.

  Nate lifted his head. “So, like, while it’s a chocolate factory, everyone’s like, ‘Look, there’s the chocolate factory. Even though it used to be gloves, or whatever. And in Afghanistan, everyone’s like, look, it’s Jason, our platoon mate from Squad Company B, or whatever. Even though a couple of months ago, you were Jason-from-Pinehurst.”

  “Yeah, sort of.” J
ason chewed a nail. “It made more sense in my head.”

  Nate snuggled against him.

  Jason dug an elbow into his ribs. “Also, Squad Company B?”

  “I don’t know anything about the military.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  “Mmm, really?” Jason gathered him in his arms and kissed the side of his neck. “Prove it.”

  So Nate did. And they woke up together the next morning, arms numb under each other’s bodies, pillow marks on their faces, tooth and nail marks everywhere else.

  Nate was with Jason when Jason hit “submit” on a blog post for QueerIt, an LGBTQ news outlet. A public apology for what he’d done to Nate years ago. Public with Nate’s permission, though Nate neither wanted or needed the apology. But Jason needed it. A public apology, and a measured assessment of Moving Forward, its goals, and where it had gone wrong. Links to the statute he and Molly had filed with the state secretary, and the petition they had started to get a conversion therapy ban on the ballot next election.

  He was with Jason during the onslaught of comments ranging from “too little, too late” to “Now THIS is an apology.” During Jason’s realization that the public apology hadn’t really changed anything for the two of them. But it did help the petition get nearly a hundred thousand more signatures.

  But he was alone for the realization that forgiveness was not a decision. It wasn’t an act or a gesture or a word. It was an acknowledgment. Ongoing. Shifting. An acknowledgment that no one person was above any other. That many times, it was only though luck and chance that your flaws didn’t make a monster of you. An opening of the heart—to let love in, and to let bitterness out.

  Nate sat on the back porch of their apartment and gazed up at the hazy mid-afternoon sun. Saw how it washed all the sleepy houses on the street in a white-gold glow.

  What made forgiveness hard was looking into the eyes of the person who’d wronged you and seeing your own reflection. Knowing you had to give up your little patch of territory on the side of Right, and join your antagonist in that vast gray expanse between God’s light and complete darkness. Because your righteousness was an illusion. Your certainty, a danger.