Simple Simon

by William Poe

  “I’m not saying it is easy for you. I know it’s not. But Stanley doesn’t have your charisma.”

  “Stanley was on top of the world when he joined,” I said. “I’d never seen him smile like that, but after a while, he reverted to the morose Stanley I knew in college.”

  “You were all smiles when you came to Hattiesburg. You’re still smiling.”

  “Force of habit. I spent years traveling the Midwest visiting fundraising teams with low morale. I had to cheer them up.”

  “Maybe so, Commander Powell, but that doesn’t account for the light glowing in there.” Norman pointed at my heart. He always did know how to make me feel special.

  “Stanley and I went through some tough times in Chicago,” I said. “Nearly all the original members of Stanley’s team left the church and had to be replaced by new people. Three of mine disappeared. You may have heard about Gloria, the sister on my team who was attacked. I’m surprised Stanley and I survived. I had to remind myself every day that our mission was important.”

  “It still is,” Norman said, “and that’s what we have to impress on the members from San Francisco—that our sacrifices make a difference. Look at the change Father made in your life. Who’d have thought you would become a leader?”

  Norman noticed my embarrassment. “You never allow success to go to your head. I’m proud of you, Simon.”

  “My own father never told me that. It’s nice to hear.”

  “Well, our father appreciates you.” Norman reached a long arm across the table and placed his hand on my shoulder. “It’s an amazing thing that I’ll be teaching people from the San Francisco family.”

  “You joined there, right?”

  An odd expression came over Norman’s face. He seemed to be trying to mask anger, or at least suppress strong discomfort. “It was a different time,” he began. “Abbanim was one of the first pioneers who came to America. When I first heard lectures, Father wasn’t mentioned. Most of us thought Abbanim was the source of the teachings. We were taught a very broad theology that didn’t seem especially Christian. You know, the movement brought in a lot of Theosophists and Spiritualists during those early days in San Francisco. I grew up reading Madame Blavatsky.”

  I sensed that Norman had an interesting story to tell, and I could have certainly conversed about books such as Isis Unveiled, but I didn’t want to know more than I already did about the church’s murky origins.

  “Should be a fascinating workshop,” Norman said with a smile. He motioned to the waitress and ordered a slice of pie.

  Workshops were difficult, and we were in no hurry to get under way. Soon, there would be little time for sleep, much less conversation.

  Before finishing the pie, Norman remembered that he’d parked in a loading zone. We rushed to pay the tab and found, miraculously, no ticket on the windshield. I forced open the door of the heavily dented van and gingerly sat on the exposed springs of the passenger seat.

  “Quite a workhorse,” I said.

  “It was the only vehicle they had available at the New Yorker. It goes back to the World Day competition.”

  I patted the dashboard. “Just get us into Manhattan, old girl.”

  The van groaned and creaked as Norman maneuvered around potholes and avoided abandoned cars littering the roadside. In the absence of functional shock absorbers, the van rode like a buckboard wagon.

  After an hour, we finally crossed the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. Though I had visited the city many times over the years, I never grew accustomed to the mass of pedestrians, who, walking along the sidewalks, became engulfed by steam and, when crossing the street, dodged taxicabs that roamed in herds like yellow buffalo.

  “Got us here safe and sound,” Norman said, holding the steering wheel firmly as we rattled to a stop in front of the New Yorker.

  “Luck—that’s all it was,” I laughed.

  Noxious fumes belched from the tailpipe as I left the van and headed for the revolving doors at the hotel entrance. Norman was driving off to find a parking place when a uniformed brother approached me. He held a walkie-talkie in his hand.

  “May I see your ID?” he asked.

  I took a church-issued membership card from my wallet and explained that I was an MFT commander in town to lead a workshop. The brother escorted me to the registration desk. I signed in and repeated that I was there to lead a workshop. The sister at the desk called upstairs and spoke to Mitsui.

  “We’ve had a lot of trouble recently,” the sister said. “Deprogrammers have tricked their way inside, posing as members. I hope you understand. I had to confirm your identity. I’ll know you in the future.”

  “Thanks for being diligent,” I said.

  The sister assigned me a room on the thirty-second floor. “I’m putting the workshop guests near each other,” she said. “Here’s a list of names with their room numbers.”

  I glanced over the list while heading to the elevator. Norman ran across the lobby, panting heavily as he caught up with me.

  The threadbare carpeting in the hallway on the thirty-second floor looked as though it had been installed during the days of Benny Goodman. Dim lights added to the spooky atmosphere. Remembering Norman’s special abilities, I had to ask.

  “I’ll never forget when you opened the door in Hattiesburg to let low spirits leave the room. See any famous people lingering around?”

  Norman scanned the hallway. “Trust me, there’s nothing in the spirit world of the New Yorker you want to know about.”

  The hotel had been the site of a well-known speakeasy during Prohibition. Famous gangsters had headquartered at the hotel, and more than one had met his death in its hallways. I hadn’t considered what I was asking.

  “I’m a couple of doors down,” Norman said when we reached my room, a space about the size of a walk-in closet. “They subdivided the rooms.”

  I threw my stuff on the cot-like bed.

  Norman pointed down the hallway and took me to the lecture room, a large suite arranged with the typical folding chairs and blackboard. Norman took a piece of chalk from the trough and wrote his name in big letters. Then he came to the window where I was looking down on the traffic.

  “We’ve got our work cut out for us,” Norman said. “The San Francisco members began arriving yesterday. I can already see how confused they are.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Confused how?”

  That same expression I had seen earlier came over Norman. “For one thing, they don’t know that homosexuality is a sin.” Norman pursed his lips when saying the distasteful word. “Two brothers who arrived yesterday were living together before they joined. When they moved into the San Francisco center, the leaders allowed them to continue their relationship. Last night, I saw them kissing in the hallway. When I confronted them and explained that the Divine Principle prohibited such behavior, they told me that no one in San Francisco had ever said anything like that and that I must be mistaken. They had been told that God bestows his blessing on those who have the greatest passion and love, that boundaries of a person’s sex make no difference.”

  As Norman peered into my eyes, it took phenomenal effort not to blink.

  “We have to educate them,” Norman said firmly. “Homosexuality is against the will of God. Abbanim is misguided. I wish that Father would…” He cut his sentence short.

  “Have you seen the two brothers since you spoke to them?” I asked, carefully articulating the words to keep from sounding nervous.

  Norman’s voice cracked with emotion. “How can anyone study the Divine Principle and not understand that True Love exists only between a man and a woman?”

  “What happened to the brothers?” I pressed.

  “They telephoned San Francisco during the night, and one of the leaders there prepaid tickets so they could return. They left this morning.” Norman reflected for a moment. “Those San Francisco leaders truly forget themselves.”

  My stomach turned to knots as Norman continu
ed.

  “If members truly want to overcome their homosexuality, we can send them to a doctor.”

  “A doctor?”

  “Yes, a psychiatrist named Dr. Goren. He specializes in curing homosexuals. Mitsui told me that some members of the New York MFT went to see him. After the treatment, they no longer had those sinful desires.”

  “A cure for homosexuality? That’s incredible.”

  Norman put a hand on my shoulder. “God will work through us. We just need to have faith.”

  CHAPTER 25

  After lectures had ended each day, Norman and I set aside time for individual counseling. One sister, a taciturn young woman named Sharon, seemed particularly distraught after the lecture highlighting the fact that sexual transgressions were at the root of human suffering. We went to a meeting room where coffee was available around-the-clock, poured ourselves each a cup, and sat around a small table. I asked Sharon about her life before joining.

  “I’m ashamed to talk about it,” she began. “But after hearing the lecture today, I have to tell someone.”

  “This is the chance to unburden your heart,” I consoled. “Nothing you say will change the fact that we are family.”

  Sharon cooled her coffee, blowing across the top of the mug, and slowly took a sip.

  “Really, Sharon, whatever you have to say will remain in this room.”

  Sharon began hesitantly. “It’s about me and my mother. We slept in the same bed after she divorced my father. I was only five when it started. Do you understand?” Sharon’s face darkened. “All through childhood, until I left home, Mother and I slept together. She died recently. Mother was drunk and ran through an intersection.” Sharon sobbed. “I miss her terribly!”

  “You shouldn’t feel guilty about missing her,” I said. “No matter what she did, she was your mother.”

  Sharon took a deep breath. I handed her a box of tissues from a shelf beside the table. “Now that she’s gone, I dream about her every night. Oh God!” Sharon’s voice was full of anguish. “How can God love me?”

  How well I understood her plea!

  “Let me tell you a story,” I said as Sharon dabbed the corner of her eyes. “My best friend from childhood, a boy named Ernie, was found dead in his car.”

  Sharon looked at me.

  “Just as you described the situation with you and your mother, Ernie and I knew each other. It started when we were young boys.”

  Sharon pressed a tissue to her nose.

  “I called to tell Ernie’s mother that I was coming home for the service. Perhaps she told me the truth because she was drunk. Ernie died of a heroin overdose. He choked on his own vomit.”

  Sharon’s face turned ashen.

  “Out in Sibley, the little town where I grew up, folks sometimes have open-casket wakes in their homes. Ernie looked peaceful resting on the satin pillows. Death bestowed on him the youthful appearance I wanted to remember. When no one was watching, I bent over and kissed him. It wasn’t until I felt Ernie’s cold lips that I accepted the reality that we would never be together.”

  “You, Mr. Powell?”

  “We are all sinners, Sharon. If God didn’t forgive us, there would be no hope.”

  Years of pent-up sadness flooded Sharon’s eyes.

  “Forgive yourself. God does,” I said, speaking to myself as much as to Sharon.

  “I would like to go to the prayer room now, if that’s okay,” Sharon said.

  “Of course. But don’t stay up all night. You need to be alert during lectures tomorrow.”

  I should have ordered myself to pray, but my mind was too full of memories—and like many immature leaders, I was better at telling other people what to do than doing it myself.

  The next day, Norman continued his lecture about the nature of evil, making the case that Satan wanted to destroy us through sex. “Can you imagine a sin worse than denying the family?” Norman asked. “Husband and wife reflect the masculine and feminine aspects of God. All other relationships of a sexual nature are satanic.”

  At the end of the lecture, I led a mournful song about repentance that I had written during a dark time leading my team in Chicago and finding myself infatuated with one of the brothers: Oh Lord, I’m a sinner. Yes, I’m the one.

  When bedtime arrived, I hoped that no one would want to talk. I was emotionally exhausted, and I needed to rest. Just then, a winsome brother named Martin came to the door of Norman’s office. Martin was so much like Ernie, with his white-blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, that I had been avoiding him since the beginning of the workshop. I was unable to see him without being overcome by a sense of regret and longing.

  “Do you have time to talk?” Martin asked in a quiet voice.

  At least Martin’s voice didn’t sound like Ernie’s. Ernie had spoken in a direct manner; Martin was timid.

  “Perhaps Norman has time,” I said, but immediately sensed that Martin felt rejected. “However”—I pretended to look inside the office—“he appears to be busy.”

  “Can we go somewhere, away from the others?” Martin asked.

  I suggested one of the lecture rooms, but Martin said he’d like to show me a place where he had been going to pray. I knew I should insist on a public area, but I followed him anyway. Martin led me to the elevator and pressed the button for the thirtieth floor.

  “The elevator doesn’t open properly,” Martin said as he pushed the door with his palm when the elevator stopped. “The stairwell door is locked, so this is the only way to get in.”

  We entered a dimly lit hallway speckled with plaster chips that had fallen from the ceiling. Damaged furniture and shattered glass littered the rooms. The dank smell of mouse urine rose from the tattered carpeting. Martin led us to a cubbyhole at the end of a corridor and flicked a light switch that turned on a low-wattage bulb dangling from the ceiling. Martin had cleared junk out of the room and found a throw rug to put on the exposed floor. We settled into a cross-legged position opposite each another. Martin sighed heavily before beginning his story.

  “Did you know that I was in the church once before? I joined in New York the first time. I was even on the MFT for a while. I ran away from a fundraising team near Fresno, California, and made my way to San Francisco.”

  “I’m surprised someone didn’t recognize you. But then, the MFT and the San Francisco church didn’t have much contact with each other.”

  “When I met the church member in Golden Gate Park, I gave a phony last name, anyway,” Martin explained. “I just wanted a meal and a place to stay for the night.”

  “What’s bothering you, Martin?” I interrupted. We had inched so close during our discussion that our knees touched. Martin suddenly laid his head on my lap. I was about to jump away when I realized that he was crying. I placed my hand on his neck, convincing myself that it was nothing more than a gesture of consolation. “Whatever it is, you’ll be all right,” I said.

  Martin sat up.

  “Use your shirttail as a handkerchief,” I said. “It’s not elegant, but it works.”

  Martin smiled wanly as he pulled out his shirt, exposing his taut stomach.

  “I’m one of those evil beings Norman talked about today,” Martin said. “I’m homosexual.”

  Helping Martin will indemnify your own sin, advised one of my better angels. “Do you want to change?” I asked.

  “More than anything,” Martin responded. “My feelings have been nothing but a curse ever since my parents threw me out when they discovered me in bed with an older man.”

  “I know of a doctor who can treat homosexuality,” I said. “But you have to want to change.”

  “I’ve hated these desires all my life,” Martin said. “When I was thrown out of the house, I turned tricks to stay alive. It made me feel dirty, but I did it anyway. I started doing drugs with the men who picked me up, and that’s when things got bad.”

  “God is offering you help,” I said.

  A ray of hope entered my thoughts: If this
works for Martin, perhaps I can go see Dr. Goren without anyone knowing.

  “I want God’s help,” Martin said.

  “I’ll talk to Norman and arrange for you to see the psychiatrist, Dr. Goren. Come to the office after the first lecture tomorrow, okay?”

  Martin agreed.

  Early the next morning, Norman listened intently to my report about Martin. He suggested we speak to Mitsui as soon as possible. We went to his office and found him talking to a group of Japanese brothers and sisters. It was a grim-faced crowd.

  “Something very serious happened,” Mitsui said in English, before again speaking in Japanese.

  A brother sitting nearby did his best to translate, but his English was poor. “Father’s oldest son, he boating with friend on Hudson River. Something happen. Friend is drowned.”

  I recalled the time I’d seen Hyo-jin playing with his yo-yo at the Tudor House in Little Rock, then walking hand in hand with Father and Mother down the airline jetway. He was a beautiful boy, the perfect son.

  “Members might misunderstand the situation,” Mitsui said to Norman and me.

  “Don’t worry about the workshop,” Norman said reassuringly. “If they have questions, I’ll explain that Hyo-jin must have done all he could to help his friend.”

  Mitsui again spoke in Japanese, seeming to ignore that Norman had said anything. About a half hour later, Mitsui dismissed the group. Each member bowed to Mitsui and solemnly said, “Hai, Taicho,” before leaving the room. I wasn’t sure what they had agreed to.

  “The two of you should stay for breakfast,” Mitsui offered, inviting Norman and me to sit at his table.

  Mitsui took a raw egg from a basket in the middle of the table. He cracked it open at one end with a chopstick and poured in soy sauce. He noisily slurped down the contents.

  “One of our brothers wants to see Dr. Goren,” Norman said at the first opportunity.

  “The brother’s name is Martin,” I added. “He spoke to me about his desire to change.”

  Mitsui made a face. “Do we want this brother in the family?”