by Scotty Cade
“Good morning,” Cullen said. “I was wondering if Associate Pastor Weston was in this morning?”
“May I inquire as to who’s asking?”
Cullen kept it short. “I’m Reverend Cullen Kiley from Massachusetts.” Best not to stretch the truth too much if I don’t have to. Cullen waited.
The woman tilted her head to one side and said nothing, apparently waiting for him to elaborate.
“Oh. I… I’m on vacation, passing through Southport on my boat, and was told by a mutual friend who also went to the seminary that Abel—I mean Associate Pastor Weston—was assigned here, so I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”
The woman’s smile was still hesitant. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Reverend, but Monday and Tuesday are Pastor Weston’s days off. That boy works so hard. In fact, most times he doesn’t even take his days off. But he left a message on the answering machine over the weekend saying he was going out of town unexpectedly and wouldn’t be in until Wednesday.”
Out of town! Not back until Wednesday? Cullen heard the words but couldn’t believe them. He cursed internally but tried to offer some sort of response. “Oh, that’s too bad.”
“How long will you be in town?” the woman asked, sticking out her hand. “I’m Agnes Williams, by the way. My husband is the pastor here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Williams, but I’m not sure yet. If you hear from Abel, will you please tell him I stopped by and to please give me a call.”
The woman slid a pad and pen across the desk, and Cullen jotted down his name and cell number and slid it back to her.
“I certainly will, Reverend”—she looked down at the pad—“Kiley.”
Cullen knew Abel had his number, but Agnes did not, and Cullen didn’t want to raise any suspicions for Abel’s sake. He knew he was already taking a chance just by coming here.
“Thank you very much,” Cullen said.
“You’re very welcome. If Abel calls, rest assured he’ll get your message.”
“Thank you.”
The woman came out from behind her desk, slid her arm in his, and walked him to the door. “Now you have a good day, Reverend,” she said patting his forearm. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Southport.”
Cullen nodded and smiled weakly. “Is the church open?” he asked, much to his surprise.
“As a matter of fact, it is. It’s always open during regular business hours.” Agnes lowered her head and looked at him over her glasses. “You know, when I was a little girl, it used to be open twenty-four hours a day for our congregation to stop in and pray anytime we felt the need. But as the years rolled on and people stopped respecting the church as God’s house, it became necessary to lock the doors at night. I’d be happy to give you a tour if you like. Are you Southern Baptist, Reverend?”
Cullen responded without thinking. “No, ma’am. Episcopalian.”
Like hell you are!
The woman nodded tightly but didn’t respond.
Cullen laid his hand on top of Agnes’s, which was still resting on his forearm. “Thank you again for your help, Mrs. Williams.”
“My husband has told me on numerous occasions that we’re different from Episcopalians, but in my book we are all God’s children, so please feel free to visit our church and say a prayer for those in need.”
“I think I’ll do just that,” Cullen said without conscious thought.
Closing the office door behind him, Cullen followed the path around to the front of the church, stopped, and looked up at the tall white steeple. He slipped his hands in his pockets and waited. He wanted to feel something. Anything that might give him a spark of the old flame he used to feel when he contemplated a place of worship. But nothing came.
Cullen walked up the steps, laid a hand on the shiny brass door handle, and slowly pulled the door open. Again it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but his ears instantly heard a song he recognized. He felt a stabbing pain in his heart, and his legs weakened to the point where he thought they just might crumple beneath him. He felt his way to the nearest pew and sat.
The song wasn’t a hymn he’d ever heard or sung in the Episcopal Church, but one he’d heard from a spiritual country music CD Cole had purchased years ago simply to get a version of “Amazing Grace” by Martina McBride. The CD was a compilation of various country singers, and Kenny Chesney had done his version of the song now playing, “The Old Rugged Cross.” It had become one of Cole’s favorites and Cullen’s as well. So much so that Cullen had it sung at Cole’s memorial service.
Chill bumps covered the surface of Cullen’s body, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. What are the odds? As he sat there, he could feel the tears welling up. He closed his eyes tightly against the onslaught of emotions and bit his bottom lip hard enough that he was sure he’d drawn blood.
“How can any of this be happening?” Cullen said out loud.
I must be losing my mind. That’s it. I’m finally going insane.
The vivid dreams. Abel. This church. This song. Why was Cole’s memory so alive here?
How?
Why?
Cullen looked up again. Have you not tortured me enough? What more do you want from me?
Cullen listened in silence. With his eyes closed tightly, it was easy for him to imagine Cole sitting next to him, their hands joined as they enjoyed the simple melody and spiritual lyrics of the song. But when the song ended and Cullen opened his eyes, Cole wasn’t there. And he was never going to be. Not ever. He closed his eyes again, willing the fantasy to come to life.
The church was silent for a few seconds. The next song started, and Cullen listened closely, half expecting Martina McBride to start her version of “Amazing Grace.” But that miracle never came. The song that followed was one Cullen didn’t recognize, and it held no difficult memories for him, for which he was very grateful. It allowed him to compose himself again and focus on the church and why he’d come. Why had he come? Was it to pray? Was it to curse God again? Why?
Cullen put those thoughts aside. He opened his eyes once again and studied the interior of the church. It wasn’t nearly as grand as an Episcopal or Catholic church. There were no ornate columns or statues, and the altar was more of a lectern or pulpit with a single podium. Behind the pulpit, four or five steps led up to another level, quite possibly a choir loft. Behind the loft was a solid white wall with a four-sided wooden molding like a picture-frame encasing a substantial portion of it. The strange thing was there was nothing inside of the frame except a few fall-colored flowers in the lower corners. To the left and right of the frame was a ledge that ran horizontally to the end of the wall. The ledge was also covered with fall flowers. Oddly enough there was no depiction of Christ on the cross—or any visible crosses for that matter. No statue of Virgin Mary. No statue of Joseph.
In the places where these statues would historically be in his church, this one had a pit containing a guitar, a saxophone, and a set of drums instead, and directly across from it on the other side of the church, an organ pit. So odd!
Looking around further, Cullen noticed the entire church was carpeted in sapphire blue, and the pews were arranged in a semicircle. Also unlike his church, there were two separate aisles left and right of center instead of one aisle right down the middle. Cullen knew he was in a church, but it felt so different, so foreign. It was odd to not smell the familiar incense or hear the old pipe organ blaring out “The Lord’s Prayer.”
Then it suddenly dawned on Cullen that this was the first time he’d been in any kind of church since Cole’s memorial service. All those memories descended upon him like the church itself had caved in. The memories of the music. The Word. The people. His inability to speak. Or feel. Cole’s urn displayed prominently on the altar. The limo ride to the mausoleum with Cole’s urn resting on his lap. The sound of rock on rock when the marble door slid closed on Cole’s tomb. And then the emptiness of what used to be their home. His empty life now.
Cullen froze with his hand on the door handle. Way to go, Cullen. Does everything have to be about you? You didn’t come here for you. Remember? Why else did you want to visit the sanctuary if not to ask again for help for Abel in God’s house?
Turning and staring straight ahead at the pulpit, Cullen whispered, “God, if you remember me at all, you must know how hard this is for me. How hard it is for me to be here. To ask you for anything. But this is not about me. I have come here and put our differences aside because I have a friend in need. In need of your help. He too has prayed for help and guidance and feels ignored by you. I have done everything I can to help, but as usual I’ve failed. He is a good man, so please bring him home and try to find it somewhere in your heart to help him.”
Cullen turned and walked out of the church, down the steps, and onto the street. He’d done everything he’d known to do. The rest was up to the universe—or whatever higher power you believed in.
As Cullen walked along without direction, he found himself at the Riverwalk, strolling along the sidewalk. He stopped when he came to the bench he and Abel had shared a few days ago. He stared at it. Had it only been a few days? Cullen sat and gazed out over the water. The bright sunshine was now gone, the sky was a gray mass of gloomy clouds, and the water was leaden and rough. In the distance Cullen could hear rumbles of thunder, and suddenly people were scattering with a renewed sense of urgency in their step.
But Cullen didn’t move. He allowed his mind to drift, mostly to second-guess his efforts. Had he exhausted every option to help Abel? Did Abel just want to be left alone? Did he need time to think? Agnes said Abel indicated he’d be back on Wednesday, so Cullen didn’t think he’d do anything foolish. But he knew the man was in pain. And Cullen knew all too well that sometimes people in pain did foolish things. A chill ran down his spine.
A jagged streak of lightning split the sky just overhead, and Cullen jumped to his feet. At some point it had started raining, and he’d been so deep in thought, he’d not even noticed. He started back to the boat as the wind picked up. It began to rain harder; the thunder roared and the lightning danced over the water like Fourth of July fireworks.
When Cullen climbed back on T-Time, he was soaked to the bone. He stepped out of his shoes, shed his wet clothes, and peeled off his dripping socks. Down below, he stood under the spray of an extra-hot shower, but no matter how hot the water, Cullen just couldn’t seem to get warm. When the water started to run cool, he shut it off, wrapped a towel around himself, and sat on the small bench in his shower. He rested his head against the shower wall and shivered. And shivered.
Finally getting up the nerve to venture outside of the stall, Cullen dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved fleece pullover. Just as he stepped into his slippers, his cell phone beeped. Oh no! Please, God, don’t let me have missed a call from Abel.
The screen read Missed Call and displayed Abel’s number.
Cullen was about to hurl the phone across his cabin when he noticed there was a voice mail. He slid his trembling fingers across and tapped the screen a few times, and then he lifted the phone to his ear.
He gave a sigh of relief when he heard Abel’s voice say, “Cullen.”
But that relief quickly faded. “You went to my church, Cullen? What were you thinking, man? What did you tell them? Who did you say you are? How do we know each other? Oh my God, Cullen, did you tell Agnes you were gay? I could lose everything. I thought you were my friend.”
The voice mail abruptly ended. Cullen dropped the phone and sat on the edge of his bed. His stomach was churning, and although he’d had nothing all day but coffee, he was in grave danger of losing whatever was in there. How could Abel think I would do that to him? It was as though Abel had reached into Cullen’s chest and yanked his heart out. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. The rain pelted the hull of the boat, and the thunder and lightning rumbled and flashed, but Cullen was immune to it all. He felt, saw, and heard nothing as he lay motionless, staring blankly up at the ceiling of his cabin. And then his cell phone rang. Cullen scrambled to his feet and then dropped to his knees looking for his phone. When he found it, he saw Abel’s number on the screen and answered. “Abel! I didn’t do or say anything to hurt you. You didn’t return any of my calls. I was worried about you.”
Abel’s voice cracked. “I’m so sorry.”
No. Didn’t crack. Abel was crying. “Abel, where are you? I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“No,” Abel said. “I’m so sorry, Cullen. I didn’t mean…. I know you’d never do anything to intentionally hurt me.”
“Abel, please,” Cullen begged. “Just come back and we can talk all this through.”
“No!” Abel said. “We can’t be friends. You should probably go, Cullen. It’s best for both of us.”
“Abel! I know why you think we can’t be friends.”
Abel didn’t respond.
“I’ve thought all along you were struggling with your sexuality, Abel. I remember the kiss. And I remember your words. ‘We have more in common than you’d ever imagine.’”
“God, no!” Abel said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Cullen said. “It’s okay, Abel. It’s okay.”
Abel’s breathing was heavier, and Cullen could hear sobs. “No! It’s not okay, and it will never be okay.”
“I know it feels that way now, but it won’t feel that way forever. I can get you through this, Abel. I promise you.”
“I’m not gay. I don’t want to be gay. I can’t be gay,” Abel yelled into the phone.
“Abel, just come back. We’ll talk it through, and if you still want me to go, I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“No need,” Abel said. “Nothing to talk through. Just please go, Cullen. It’s the only way.”
Cullen sighed. “This is not going away, Abel. It’s not something you can cure. Me leaving won’t change who and what you are.”
“It might not cure me, Cullen, but it will take away this temptation I have to burn in hell. With you! Good-bye, Cullen.”
Abel ended the call, and Cullen again sat on the bed. “Jesus! What have I done?”
CULLEN SAT in the dark saloon, the only light from a burning candle on the table in front of him and the intermittent flash of lightning strikes across the sky. The only sounds were from the rumbling thunder and the constant thumping of the waves against T-Time’s hull.
The power had gone off over an hour ago and instead of starting T-Time’s generator, he decided he liked the darkness and solitude. It fit his mood perfectly. Cullen was sipping his third shot of bourbon, and although nowhere near intoxicated, he found his sharp emotions had softened around the edges, and he was feeling more melancholy than anything else. The storm was showing no signs of calming, and in truth he found it all rather soothing.
What an appropriate way to spend my last night in Southport.
Late in the afternoon, he’d made up his mind to do as Abel had asked. He called the Charleston City Marina, reserved a slip for the rest of the winter, and told Southport Marina he was leaving tomorrow morning at first light.
It was the least he could do, but it was killing him to leave someone whom he now considered a friend at one of the darkest times of his life. And if he were being completely honest—this was probably the bourbon talking now—he felt an unlikely connection to Abel. That in itself was odd because he’d had no interest in new friends—or old friends for that matter—since Cole’s death. Why Abel? Maybe it was simply because Cullen thought Abel needed him, and after so long, it felt good to be needed.
Cullen stared at the flickering candle, and his thoughts switched to Abel again. Leaving without saying good-bye or seeing Abel face-to-face was going to be difficult. He wanted to know that Abel was going to be all right, but that just wasn’t in the cards. Although Cullen had taken Abel’s earlier call very hard for a couple of hours, the more he thought about Abel’s rage, the more he realized it was Abel simply reacting out of fear. The man was scared, paranoid, and oversensitive about his sexuality, pure and simple, and his emotions were doing the talking. Cullen thought he’d gotten to know Abel fairly well in the short time they’d had together, and he’d never heard Abel so much as raise his voice or speak ill of anyone or anything. No. It was definitely fear driving his anger. Abel had seemed to accept that Cullen would never reveal anything to the church about his suspicions, which had now been confirmed, but he still didn’t want Cullen around. Would Abel regret that when he thought about it more rationally?
Then, as usual, his thoughts turned once more to Cole, who was the main reason Cullen was in Southport in the first place. Had Cole brought him and Abel together? Of course not. He no longer believed in fate or God’s hand in making the world go around, but Cullen did realize he’d probably buried a few of his demons here, especially the fear that his memories of Cole were fading away to nothing. He still had a long way to go to get his life back on track, but holding on to Cole was not the way to do it. He would always have their memories, but he had to let the man himself go.