by Scotty Cade
To his dismay, all he was offered was an e-mail address. But at least he had Abel’s middle name, and that might make his search a little easier. So he opened Google again and typed in “Pastor Abel Matthew Weston, Southport, North Carolina.” The first thing to pop up was the church’s website. Next came a link to a story in the local paper, the State Port Pilot, with the heading “Abel M. Weston joins Southport Baptist Church as Associate Pastor.”
Cullen clicked on the link and saw Abel’s smiling face looking back at him from where he sat on the front steps of the church. Cullen started reading the article.
A youthful new associate pastor named Abel Matthew Weston has just joined the Southport Baptist Church. Associate Pastor Weston graduated at the top of his class from the Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary in Wake Forest, NC, with a Master of Divinity with Pastoral Ministry.
Associate Pastor Weston was born to an underage unwed mother and given up at birth, which resulted in him spending eighteen years in the North Carolina Foster Care system. According to Associate Pastor Weston, his treasured Bible is the only link he has to his birth mother. “This Bible belonged to my birth mother,” said Weston. “As a young child, it’s what I used to learn to read and is what has carried me through many dark times while I navigated from one home to another in the overburdened foster care system. It was the inspiration for my spiritual journey, and it and my faith mean the world to me,” Weston added.
Associate Pastor Weston comes to Southport from the First Baptist Church of Raleigh, NC, where he studied under Senior Pastor John B. Hutch as a Minister of Missions.
“We are extremely thrilled to have Associate Pastor Weston join The Southport Baptist Church,” said Senior Pastor Henry P. Williams. “His expertise and youth will be a perfect fit for our outreach programs, which are designed to develop and increase Southport’s youths’ participation in the church.”
Associate Pastor Weston is currently single and will reside in the church-owned residence on Caswell Street in Southport.
Cullen closed the article with slightly renewed hope. Caswell Street. I’ve seen that street. As a matter of fact, I’ve been on that street. Several times. And then he sighed. Wow, Abel, foster care? I had no idea. That must have sucked.
After selecting a people search engine from Google, Cullen typed in Abel’s full name and state, clicked search, and waited. Minutes later three Abel Matthew Westons came up, but they didn’t show any information other than a name. When he clicked on the first option, the site asked for a credit card. Free? Yeah, right. Cullen entered his credit card information, and additional information regarding the first Abel appeared on the screen. This Abel graduated from Duke, was in the financial industry, lived in Charlotte, and was married with two children. Definitely not him. Cullen exited that record and clicked on the next Abel. This record showed a little more promise but not much. It did have this Abel as a graduate of the Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary, which was correct, but the address listed was a Raleigh address. This is an old record. Cullen read on. Single. No children. Damn!
He exited that record and held his breath as he clicked on his last option. Bingo! Cullen became hopeful. This has got to be him. Associate Pastor Abel Matthew Weston, Southport Baptist Church, Southport, NC. Wait, no! The address listed was the church’s address on North Howe Street. Cullen slammed his computer closed. I guess since the church owns the residence, that must be his formal address.
Certain something wasn’t right and feeling more ill at ease by the minute, Cullen did the only thing he could do. He went back to Caswell Street. It’s Sunday afternoon. Someone’s gotta be out in their yard or taking a walk. It’s a small town—doesn’t everyone know everyone in a small town?
Cullen picked up his pace until he was almost jogging. He cut through Yacht Basin Street to Brunswick Street and turned left onto Caswell. He walked all the way up to North Howe and saw not one single soul in their yard, sitting on their porch, or simply taking a stroll. He crossed the street and started back down the other side of Caswell, keeping a sharp eye out.
Most of the houses in Southport, at least near the harbor, featured a plaque next to the front door with the formal name of the house and the year it was built. He’d read somewhere that the houses were usually named after the ship’s captain who built them, but he also thought that maybe Abel’s house, since it was owned by the church, might reference something religious as well. He knew it was another long shot, but as he walked along, he studied each plaque for any sign of the church. Cullen also paid attention to the details of the houses, looking for any small sign of Abel. He stopped at one house that had a pair of worn boat shoes at its front door. Cullen studied the shoes from the sidewalk to see if he recognized them as Abel’s. But no such luck.
Cullen was nearing the last block of Caswell, and he was quickly losing hope. Until he spotted an elderly lady bending over and cutting dead roses off of a row of bushes against a white decorative fence. When she looked up, he smiled at her. “I’ll bet those were beautiful during the summer months.”
“They were indeed.” The woman straightened and stretched her back. “But I think this may be my last year of doing this on my own. I’m just getting too old.”
“I’m not much of a gardener, but I’d be happy to help if there’s anything I can do.”
The woman smiled appreciatively. “Oh, thank you. But I’m sure you have better things to do than help an old woman deadhead her roses.”
Cullen realized he needed to keep the conversation going until he could work in his question about whether she knew Abel. But what? Then he took a page from Abel’s book and used his retired profession to help him along. “I’m Reverend Cullen Kiley.”
The woman brushed the strands of her gray hair behind her ear and pressed the front of her cotton dress. “Reverend Kiley. So nice to meet you. I’m Dorothy Arnold. But you can call me Dottie.”
Cullen nodded shyly. His first thought was he didn’t want to lie to this nice lady, but he knew he would have to stretch the truth a bit to get the answers he needed.
“Are you settling in Southport, Reverend?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Just passing through on my boat.” Truth! “I was told by a mutual friend that a buddy of mine who also went to the seminary lived near the marina in Southport. So I thought I’d stop here on my way down south and reconnect.” Sort of the truth! Not really. Okay, I lied a little. Fine! I lied a lot.
“Oh could you be speaking of Abel—” She stopped and corrected herself. “I mean… Pastor Weston.”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Cullen said. “Do you know him?”
“Of course I do. He’s my neighbor.”
“Now what are the odds of that?”
Dottie smiled. “Southport is a very small town, Reverend. I’m 106 Caswell Avenue, and he’s 108.” She gestured to the house next door.
Cullen followed her hand with his eyes and smiled when he saw a neatly maintained, two-story, medium-gray bungalow trimmed in white, complete with a matching white picket fence and front porch with rocking chairs. “Can’t get a town much smaller than that,” Cullen said absentmindedly.
He stepped back and took it all in. The house was bigger than he’d expected, but after careful consideration he thought it somehow fit Abel. It might belong to the church, but it had a Mayberry R.F.D. feel and matched Abel’s boyish looks in an odd sort of way.
Cullen stuck out his hand. “Well, it was sure a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Arnold.”
“Oh, Dottie, please,” she said, smiling again. “Any friend of Abel’s is a friend of mine. He’s such a sweet boy. I swear to you, Reverend, I don’t know why some pretty young girl hasn’t scooped him up yet. I’ll tell you—” She looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. “—if I was fifty years younger….” She blushed and batted her eyelashes. “Oh, shoot. There I go again with my wild imagination. My mother always said I had no filter between my brain and my lips. Just please forget I s
aid that.”
“Forget you said what?” Cullen winked.
Dottie smiled coyly and rested her hands on her tiny hips. “I like you, Reverend.”
Holding her frail hand in his, Cullen leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “I like you too. It was sure a pleasure. Now I’d better get over there and say hi to Abel before I run out of time. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, Dottie.”
“You too, Reverend.”
Cullen followed the sidewalk to Abel’s front gate. I know why some pretty girl hasn’t scooped him up yet.
“Oh, Reverend,” Dottie called out. “I was so caught up in our conversation, I almost forgot. Abel’s not at home.”
Cullen stopped and turned around, his feeling of anticipation disappearing quickly. “No?”
“I saw him leave this morning shortly after he returned from Sunday service.”
Cullen’s heart sank once again. “Did he happen to mention where he was going or when he’d be back?”
“Heavens, no,” Dottie said. “I’m a good neighbor. Not a nosy one. I would never ask such questions.”
“Of course not,” Cullen said, hearing the disappointment in his own voice. “I didn’t mean to insinuate. I was just hoping to see him before I left. That’s all.”
“I understand.” Dottie’s voice softened. “Would you like to wait here for him? I can make some tea, and I just baked a loaf of pumpkin bread this morning.”
“That’s very kind, but I’ve got to get back to my boat. Do you by any chance have his cell phone number?”
“I do, but….” Dottie said apprehensively. She was now biting the side of her mouth, and her expression was skeptical.
“Forgive me,” Cullen said. “I shouldn’t have even asked. That was rude of me.”
“Oh, what the heck,” Dottie finally said. “You’re a friend of Abel’s and a man of the cloth. What harm could it bring?”
“Thank you, Dottie.”
CULLEN WAS back at the marina and sitting on T-Time fidgeting and checking his watch constantly. He’d called Abel while walking back to the marina. The phone rang four times and then went to voice mail. He left a message and waited. And waited. Two hours passed and still no return call. He’d tried again and the call went to voice mail again, so he hung up. Three more hours passed, and he called Abel’s number again. “Damn, Abel! Where are you?” The phone went straight to voice mail once more.
By midnight Cullen gave up and went to bed. He tossed and turned for hours, contemplating Abel’s situation and state of mind. The gentle kiss. His parting statement. Cullen remembered the process of coming out very well. First step, admitting to himself he might be gay but swearing to never act on it. Step two, acknowledging to himself he was gay but still vowing never to act on it. And lastly, getting to the point where he could no longer pretend. At that point, a guy could start to have seedy little trysts with strangers, or if he had the courage, actually come out. Worst case was seeing no way out and ending it all. Where was Abel in this process? He had apparently been through steps one and two, which would explain the endless praying for God to make him straight.
And then the kiss. Was he ready to come out, or was he at the point of no return? Being gay was not accepted in the Southern Baptist religion, least of all for the ministry, and that had been Abel’s chosen career. If he came out now, he would have to give up his job and everything he believed in. Cullen knew what that felt like all too well. Was Abel strong enough to walk away from his job and the church? That was the real question. It all seemed so hopeless, but Cullen kept telling himself not to jump to conclusions. He knew firsthand how everything always seemed so much worse in the wee hours of the morning with no sleep and a load on your mind.
Resigned to the fact that sleep would remain unattainable for the remainder of the night, Cullen cursed under his breath as he got up to sit on the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet. He sighed deeply, rubbed his eyes, and then rested his head in his hands. In his former life, in times like these, prayer had always comforted him, but not anymore. Cullen hadn’t prayed since he’d held Cole’s lifeless body in his lap and begged God to save the man he loved or to take him instead. But of course God hadn’t listened, and Cullen was alone. That had been the end of his relationship with God. But at this moment of desperation, he was rethinking everything. After all, he wasn’t asking for himself, only for Abel. The safety of a fellow man and new friend.
Oddly enough his body acted mostly on impulse, and he found his hands locked together in front of his chest. He looked up in disbelief and shook his head, not believing what he was about to do.
God, I’m a little out of practice. No, that’s not true. I’m a lot out of practice, and you know damn well why. And just for the record, this is not about us. I’m putting my grievances with you aside this one time to ask for your help on behalf of a friend who is struggling. I hardly know this man, but what I do know about him tells me he is a good man and deserves to be happy. Just please keep him safe and bring him back home so I can try to help him. That’s it, I guess. I don’t hold out much hope, but this is my last option, and I have to give it a try.
Cullen got to his feet, and his first stop was the head. Exhausted, he felt like he was dragging a ton of lead behind him. Next stop was the galley. He leaned against the counter, arms across his chest as coffee brewed, the aroma slowly starting to stir his tired senses. The coffee pot beeped, signaling the brew was complete, and Cullen poured a cup and looked out of the galley porthole. Still pitch black. The clock revealed it was 5:30. At least another hour before sunrise.
Checking his cell phone again just to make sure he hadn’t missed a call was an act of futility. The damn phone hadn’t been out of his sight since he’d placed his first call to Abel. But Cullen did it just the same. No missed calls. No voice mail.
Cullen opened the companionway door and climbed the steps to the flybridge. The marina was eerily still. No wind. Not even a breeze. He instantly missed the familiar and comforting sounds of sailboat lanyards clanging against hollow aluminum masts. The only constant was the recurring flash of the Oak Island lighthouse, and the repeating glow steadied him somehow.
By sunrise, Cullen had finished off the entire pot of coffee. He was on a serious caffeine buzz, but at least he had a plan. His last and only hope of finding Abel. If this didn’t work, Abel didn’t want to be found, and Cullen felt he could leave Southport with a clear conscience. Not a fulfilled mission, but a clear conscience.
By seven forty-five, dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved black dress shirt, Cullen stood in front of his mirror. You look like an undertaker without your white collar. But he’d long ago given up that attire.
Thirty minutes later he stood in front of Abel’s house. He was disappointed when he didn’t see a car in the driveway but hoped there was maybe a garage behind the house. He opened the gate, walked up the steps, and knocked. He waited. No one answered the door. Cullen knocked again, a little harder this time, and waited again. He listened closely, but there were no sounds or signs of life behind the front door.
Damn, Abel. Where are you?
His last hope was the Southport Baptist Church’s administrative office. Cullen hoped the office would open by at least eight o’clock, but if not he’d sit there until it did open. Heading toward the church in his undertaker’s outfit, Cullen felt bad because he knew he was going to be somewhat deceptive again. But his only chance of getting any information regarding Abel’s whereabouts was to use the fellow reverend approach he’d used with Dottie and hope whoever he encountered took pity on him.
While Cullen walked he contemplated Abel’s possible whereabouts. Maybe he was away on church business, but if that were the case, surely Abel would have mentioned that to him at some point. Or would he? They weren’t really good friends. But what were they? What was the term some people used? Two ships passing in the night. But they hadn’t missed each other. They’d actually met on a park bench. And yeah, they’d sh
ared a couple of moments, but where did that leave them?
After Cullen nervously rounded the corner onto North Howe, he stopped and admired the church for a few minutes. Somehow it looked more regal now than it had the first time he’d seen it. But in all fairness, that had been at dusk, and this morning the bright sun was climbing in the sky, making the single steeple appear an extra vibrant white against the blue sky and deep red brick. The sun was even reflecting off of the highly polished bell in the bell tower, sending the sun’s rays directly to the front door of the church like welcoming beams from heaven.
“Isn’t that special?” Cullen mumbled sarcastically. “Listen to me. Beams from heaven. Like that would happen.”
Cullen crossed North Howe and followed the signs around back to the church’s office. A plaque outside the door said “Office Hours: Monday through Saturday, 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.” Cullen knew it was well past eight, but he checked his watch anyway.
He took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open. A little bell jingled, and a small voice said, “May I help you?”
Cullen’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted, and he blinked into the dimly lit office. “I sure hope so.” He smiled in the direction of the voice as an elderly lady standing behind a desk slowly came into view. She had silver-gray hair worn up in some sort of twist or bun. She was wearing a conservative cotton dress with a high collar, no noticeable makeup, and old-fashioned cat-eye glasses, turned up on each end and very pointy. Her smile was warm but guarded.