by RJ Martin
“Can we talk about this later?” I tried the handle again, still locked.
“This weekend.”
“I’d get caught and then we’d never see each other.” Logic and half-truth were my new defenses.
“Get one of your friends to cover for you.” He smiled, and the dimples in his cheeks were huge.
“I don’t know.” Retreat was this coming weekend, and my parents hadn’t written a check yet, which made me think they probably wouldn’t. Now I was so late—if they were on the fence—I was sure tonight knocked even my dad off onto the no side.
“It’ll be so great. This photographer I know is throwing himself a birthday party at his Brooklyn loft.”
“How old is he going to be?” Dumb question, why did I ask it? Because Rusty was freaking me out.
“I don’t know old, like, thirty.” He grabbed my drawstrings again, but this time I didn’t want to be pulled in. “The whole thing is going to be huge. There’ll be a DJ and a massive spread of food.”
“What kind of food?”
“I don’t know, sushi, he likes sushi. And cake, definitely cake.”
“It’s a birthday, right?”
“I’m sure he’ll concoct some kind of cocktail that’ll mess you up.” Rusty tugged my drawstrings after each word for emphasis. He was more amped than I’d ever seen him. It made me happy and sad too because it showed me how claustrophobic Lake Henry was for him. “A lot of friends I haven’t seen in a long time will be there, and you can meet them. You want to know me? Here’s your chance.” He put his head on my shoulder and whispered, “No Jace. We can have our whole apartment all to ourselves. Fall asleep together?” Tug, tug. “Wake up together?”
“Maybe.” I wanted to say yes, I really did. I was nodding back with him and everything. Darcy’s dad would love Rusty.
“Angie was going, but you will instead. There, I chose. You’ll come, not her. I’m breaking up with her.”
“Not right now.” I slipped the hook. No sale. “She can’t know.” We both looked down at once to see I was clutching his arm. “No one can.”
“Oh I get it.” He shook me off. “You expect me to choose but not you.” Rusty hit the button on his door to unlock mine. I sat there for a moment, not knowing what to say. I couldn’t think of anything other than Dude, you are so right. Of course, I wouldn’t ever say that. So, I just got out without saying anything at all. No good-night kiss. He pulled away before I reached the trail. As I cleared the trees and trudged across our front lawn, I could see my mother’s head in the picture window.
“DAD IN bed?”
“Trouble at the motel.” My mother rose from her favorite chair. Unlike the rest of us, she did use the formal living room. It was where she retreated from the din of the family room and its too-big TV to read or occasionally do a crossword puzzle. On the side table next to the signed copy of the “never to be returned” Jace Naylor library book, Mom’s juice glass with a cartoon turtle painted on it was nearly emptied of her favorite boxed sangria.
“Is everything okay?” I wanted to tell her she and Jace had more in common than she knew, but I couldn’t.
“A guest got drunk in their room and drove off into a tree or something. Your dad’s there with the troopers.”
“Is the guy all right?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought about Rusty and his flask. I might have hurt him, and he could be out there driving drunk. If something happened because of me… I wanted to call and tell him I chose except I didn’t. In fact, all I wanted was to go to my room, snatch my glow-in-the-dark JC off the wall, and pray to him until I had some idea of what to do.
“I won’t tell him about this,” Mom said.
“Thanks.”
“Last time, Jonah.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She kissed my cheek, close to my lips, and I could hear her sniff my breath. She wouldn’t smell alcohol. We didn’t drink at all. Did she smell him? Could you smell kisses, someone else’s sweat? No, I took a shower anyway. Could she smell Jace Naylor’s far superior selection of bath products that I’d used on my hair, skin, and face?
“Good night, baby boy Gregory.”
“I’m so far from being a baby.”
“That’s what the sonogram said across the bottom when I saw you for the first time.” She finger combed my starting to get shaggy hair. I needed a haircut and tempted fate daily it would touch my collar and unleash the detention slip flingers on the faculty of NC3. “Your dad and I were a little nervous about having another baby so soon after your sister. She was already such a handful.” Mom set her finger under my chin. “Once we saw you in here—” She glanced at her belly. “—our little boy. We were so excited.”
I hugged her harder than usual. “I love you.”
“Don’t suck up.” She released me and, with the entire pride now home, went to bed.
I INTENDED to pray, but the best-laid plans…. I passed out at “blessed art thou…” of my third “Hail Mary,” after only one “Our Father,” and no “Glory Bes.” I dreamed of JC at least, and of course Rusty. One became the other and back again just like in the church. Rusty kissed me as himself and then JC. JC draped an arm over my shoulder but it was Rusty’s fingers that ran along my bare forearm. The groundless world shimmered in angelic glory as they hovered beside each other, merged, kissed me together as one, then separated and faced off. Rusty had a sword from out of nowhere and then JC did too. The cherubim cheered and seraphim stamped at the cage match on high above me. Rusty swung but JC countered. Back and forth they went, blade crashing against blade, with such force each blow sparked lightning and clapped like thunder. I didn’t beg them to stop. I wanted them to decide a question I was too afraid to ask even in my head. How could I leave JC? He was my dream, but Rusty was real. The match didn’t end, just got shaken out of me as Mémé of all people rattled me awake.
“Père Dominick est ici, hmph.” Father Dominick is here, hmph. Her grunt was the same in both languages.
“What? Mémé?” My gassy old grandmother was in my room and in some ways this was worse than a dream.
“Il est ici! Get up!” Mémé went back and forth between English and Canadian Franglais more and more lately. I could still follow as long as I rewired my brain to be Berlitz on acid.
“Maintenant, now!” Mémé spun through her mother and other tongue while I struggled to get into the bathrobe I hardly ever wore. It was a little small now and my forearms protruded from the sleeves. “Jonah.” She pushed me toward the door and let one rip I think on purpose to get me moving faster. In fact I thought I heard her chuckle as she did it. There was no time for Mémé or her cursed pipes anyway; the pastor was here.
As my brain woke up it instantly went to DEFCON 2 of terror mode. He knew. Somehow the pastor knew. Maybe JC sent a sign. I didn’t really believe that, but I wasn’t skeptical enough to dismiss the possibility. Or Angie might’ve put it together and spilled the beans. I was being outed, excommunicated, and probably expelled. We didn’t have a long stairwell I could descend and keep up suspense. Just a short hallway and I was near the end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“WHAT DO you say, Jonah?” Dad said.
“Thank you,” Mark answered for me.
“Not you.” Mom wiped his wake-up booger.
“Duh,” Luke chided him. Father Dom was about to pat his magic head but my little brother erupted with a hard, juicy sneeze and his snot caught the morning air.
“Jonah?” Dad became impatient.
“Thank you, Father.” No idea why, but I bowed a little bit as I shook his hand. “This is really amazing.” A miracle really, JC throwing around his divine weight.
“When Sister Margo told me that you had inspired over a dozen of your classmates to sign up for the retreat I knew that kind of evangelizing needed to be rewarded. It was a ‘no-brainer’ as you kids say.”
Do we? “I’m glad she did.”
“Me too.” Father Dom’s t
one suggested he and the principal nun weren’t on the same page. His ears reddened just at the tips and his handshake got a little bit firmer. “I know at first Sister may have appeared displeased. It was only because, as principal, she feels it is her duty to approve of such things.”
“You should’ve asked first, son.” My father never called me that, and I knew it was for our pastor’s benefit. He’d only been in our house one time before, after Grandpa Hank died. That time I’d wished he hadn’t. I worked enough funerals to recognize the priest’s sympathy tone and hearing it that day just made things all the more real.
“I should have. Yes, sir.” I never called my dad “sir” either. Since we were shining on the priest, I went with it.
“That would have been better, yes.” I wondered if Father Dom and the head nun really went at it. Did he go old-school, wiseguy on her? Father Dom had a lot of friends from the old neighborhood that ended up “doing time.” That meant going to prison. He told me once, but then said it’d be better if I “fuggedaboutit.” Then Father Dom laughed and ever since I don’t know if he was telling the truth or joking around.
He might have just set her straight and that was that. He was the priest, as sexist as that sounds. It was more fun to imagine them really throwing down out of earshot of Sister Matilda. I knew she served JC, but Sister Margo’s coolness toward me, and I guess everybody, inspired a desire to want to see her feathers ruffled at least once. The downside became apparent a moment later. If she’d gotten bawled out because of me, then my life at NC3 could suck even more if that was possible. Hell hath maybe one fury greater than a woman scorned, and that’s JC’s woman. I would’ve winced, but everyone’s eyes were on me like I’d grown wings or something.
“I’ll be sure to apologize, Father.”
“See that you do.” He released my hand and extended the permission slip for the retreat. “You’ve inspired me, Jonah. We may offer a scholarship every year from now on.”
“You could name it after Jonah,” Mom said.
“Perhaps.” Father Dom glanced at my mother.
“The Jonah ship.” Mark liked the idea.
“Can we ride in it?” Luke added.
“Not that kind of ship, boys.” Mom relatched their mouths with her hands.
“This is very generous, Father.” Dad shook Father Dom’s hand again. “Jonah has been wanting to do this for a long time,” he said as kind of like a scold to my mother. She nodded just a little in reply. No fan of the church but for Dad’s sake and mine, she’d go along. My father’s words were true except there was also that other something, someone really I desired, and I wasn’t sure which one I wanted more.
“Père, pour vous.” Mémé set a plate of not-quite-cooked slab bacon and runny eggs in front of him. The whole thing swam in grease. Mom snickered before biting her lip.
“Merci, Olivie.” Father Dom was one of few people my grandmother could converse with in French. His wise-guy Brooklyn accent made it hard not to laugh. “Mais je dois y aller.” He turned to us as if for help. “I must be going, really.” Mémé nodded and wiped her hands on her nightgown like it was an apron while Father Dom backed out the door.
IN MY boots and bathrobe, I walked Father Dom to his car. His generous gift was maybe the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. I hated myself for not being more grateful. “You’ve earned this, Jonah.” He glanced at the gloom as if seeing sunshine and tossed his fedora on the seat.
“You’re going to make us very proud.” His chubby, reddish eyes were each circled in darker skin like the pastor had an ancestor that was a raccoon. “I need to go, a lot of miles to cover today. That’s why we need you, Jonah.” Father Dom pointed up. “He needs you.”
Our pastor drove off and left me to wonder if maybe this was JC’s doing. Maybe he really did bring the idea of the scholarship to Father Dom as he prayed. Maybe this was how and why he revealed himself to the saints. The official story would be they were finally worthy, but in reality they were ready to bolt. Showing himself was the ultimate game changer, the thing that got them back in line, JC making sure they knew he was “da boss” and not to “fuggedaboutit” either.
I didn’t think there was anything more wrong with what Rusty and I did than with boy-on-girl action. It was just that I wasn’t supposed to mess around with anybody; I was JC’s. It wasn’t like I could seek absolution for this one at confession so I made my own penance. I vowed to fast all day to get ready for when the vans left NC3 tomorrow for the retreat. I also wouldn’t talk to Rusty again until I came back. If things went really well up there, then maybe I wouldn’t at all. If JC was intervening at this point maybe it was part of his plan. I had to suffer losing Rusty to get to him. A last wintry gust flapped my robe before I could pull it closed and head inside.
“I DIDN’T think there’d be so much praying,” Karen said with a straight face and total sincerity.
“I see,” the abbot, Reverend Father Chuck, replied. He was the head of the monks that ran Our Lady of the Hills retreat center/monastery. The abbot was not a priest, but he was still called Father. Confusing, yes. “You can call me Chuck,” he told us. “Or Brother is good too.” I knew that was not correct, but I let it go. His house, he could decide. I had other stuff on my mind. The after-dinner rap session took place in the common room that had bleached wooden beams and walls of glass on three sides. The chairs had pine frames with beige cushions that reminded me of a doctor’s office but the good kind, ones you only saw with insurance. The twins had a pediatrician like that once back when Dad had government benefits. Now they settled on the plastic chairs of the HMO where any doc would do. Of course, the retreat center didn’t have a kitty cat wall clock with a wagging tale. JC was on the wall instead but a postmodern version. It didn’t look like a real person except maybe if he were an X-man made of chrome that could become geometric shapes.
“So, why don’t you tell me—” Reverend Father, aka Brother Chuck, read her nametag. “—Karen. What did you think this weekend would be?” The abbot sipped his tea like it was something stronger. The poor guy probably hoped it was.
“I guess I was expecting more activities.” Karen spoke for the group and several other kids nodded their agreement. The point of the rap session was supposed to be a discussion on how we would focus our prayer to help us resist the secular world—sex.
“What do you call this?” Chad leaned forward on his chair.
“This is an activity,” Darcy added. They were on either side of me.
Brother Chuck gave a cross look at all three of us. I had yet to speak up. “Karen, what kind of activities?” He spoke in such a calm, measured way, it was impossible to imagine him ever getting angry about anything. I was glad for that because I was now seated at the center of a mess of my own creation.
“You know, I guess like a mixer or something where we could dance and stuff.”
I never promised dancing, I wanted to shout in her face, but I just sank lower in my chair. I fantasized the floor would open, swallow me into a basement chamber from which I could escape through rusted cyclone doors. I’d trek down the mountain to the highway and hitchhike from there. Home maybe, or New York was a possibility. Did Rusty go without me? I needed to call him. Cell phones weren’t allowed—not that I had one, but there was a pay phone in the hallway of our dorm. I couldn’t go anywhere, though, before I was done enduring my classmates’ bitch fest because I’d at worst lied and at best misrepresented the retreat experience.
“Is there a game room?” Fred asked, leaning forward. It was the first inkling anyone got he’d been paying attention.
“Are you for real?” Callie lisped through her braces. She had the most wire in her mouth I’d ever seen. “This is a retreat.” She signed up on her own, one of the dozen or so who had planned to attend this weekend for the right reasons. They sat on one side of the circled chairs while the jocks, babes, and those who wanted to be took the other side. There were about a dozen of them too. As I scanned the believers
to my right and heretics to my left, I understood how messed up my plan had been. The kids who wanted to be here were getting cheated by the presence of those who came to party. The opposite was also true in a way too. Since NC3’s in-crowd never noticed me, except to snicker, I sympathized with them less.
“Young people.” Brother Chuck addressed us that way. It sounded so patronizing. Just say kids or girls and boys. “When I saw the size of this year’s group I was overwhelmed with joy, Christ’s joy, that so many of you were hearing his call.” Brother Chuck stood and addressed us from the center of the rap circle we’d formed to discuss our goal for the weekend. The right answer was to get closer to JC. I guess not everyone was as in the know about these things as I was.
When I first decided it meant a lot for me to come up here, this was exactly the kind of moment I dreamed for: me, needed to explain and guide, teen to teen. It’d be like I was their priest. Then I’d matter again. Brother Chuck and Sister Margo would relay all this to Father Dom and then he would tell the seminary. I’d be a legend before I arrived, destined for greatness. Now no matter how hard I tried, I didn’t care. I reminded myself I’d really wanted this. I was so blessed to receive it. I owed it to Father Dom and JC to embrace the experience. No matter how hard I tried, all I really wanted was the phone.
“I’m not sure how you came to believe this brief period we will share here was to be squandered on the idle pursuits I am guessing occupy too much of your lives as it is.” On one side of me, Chad faded backward on his seat. On the other, Darcy shifted like stretching but really she’d begun to squirm. My friends were as much on the hook as me now for trying to help, and I didn’t even want to be there.
“I assure you that is not the case.” Brother Chuck’s tone lost its more soothing quality and became a little impatient. “Doesn’t our Lord deserve a little face time once in a while?”