The King
Page 24
“The kind of tests a twenty-eight year old man who’s had sex with half of Europe has to have on occasion.”
“Oh, fuck. Those kinds of tests. I wish I could empathize, but the only disease lesbians get from sex is lockjaw.”
Kingsley laughed. God, she was good at making him laugh.
“It’s fine. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop for two weeks, so no matter what, at least I’ll know.”
“We’ll know. I’m going with you.”
“You don’t have to come with me.”
“I don’t have to,” she said. “But I want to. And you want me to. No one wants to be alone for this stuff. Not even you.”
“You are too good to me,” he said, taking her hand and kissing inside her wrist.
“Stop stalling.”
“I’m not stalling, I’m f lirting.”
“You’re a man f lirting with a lesbian. That is the very definition of stalling. It’s not going to work. I have a lock on my pants, and I threw away the key.”
He looked down.
“I don’t see a lock.”
“It’s an invisible lock.”
“I’ll hire an invisible locksmith.”
“I’ll put that on the checklist. Now come on. Whatever the news is, better to get it over with.”
“If it’s bad news, I’d prefer to put it off indefinitely.”
“Then I guess you don’t want to see this bad news?” She pulled a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket.
“What is it?”
“The bill from Signore Vitale.”
He took it from her and glanced at the total. He whistled at the figure.
“Good thing I’m rich.”
“How does a captain in the French Foreign Legion get rich?”
“Catholic guilt,” Kingsley said.
“You can make money off that?” Sam asked.
“Apparently so.”
“How do I get in on that action?”
“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘if you marry money, expect to earn every penny’?”
“You married money?”
“My sister. But she’s dead, and now I’m rich. Funny how the world works.”
“Yeah,” Sam said without laughing. “Hilarious.”
They arrived at the clinic, and Sam got out of the car first. She held the door open for him and stuck her hand inside.
“Take it,” she said, waving her hand. He took it with a sigh. “I’m feeling chivalrous again.”
“I’m not wearing heels today.”
“Yeah, but I needed an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
Sam twined her fingers around his.
“To hold your hand.”
20
AS THEY WALKED INTO THE CLINIC, SAM REFUSED TO let go of Kingsley’s hand. Even when he sat in Dr. Sutton’s office, Sam stood next to him, her hand still in his. Or perhaps it was his hand in hers. She’d twined their fingers together so tightly he couldn’t tell who held on to whom.
Dr. Sutton entered with a file in her hand.
“No speeches. No preliminaries,” Kingsley said before Dr. Sutton could say a word. “Tell me right now—good or bad.” “Kingsley…” Dr. Sutton took a seat, and Sam clutched his
hand even tighter. It was bad. He knew it was bad. Was he going to die?
What did he have?
Had he given it to anyone else?
He was never going to have children. He was never going
to do anything ever again.
Would Søren miss him after he was gone?
Would anyone miss him at all?
Dr. Sutton smiled.
“Good,” she said.
Kingsley’s shoulders slumped, and he breathed out two solid
weeks’ worth of terror. Had he ever felt so relieved? So happy?
So grateful?
Sam took his face in her hands and kissed him on both
cheeks. When he looked at her, he saw tears in her eyes. Dr. Sutton gave him the lecture on sexual health and responsibility to end all lectures, scheduled him for follow-up
testing in six months and then six months after that. Half an
hour later he and Sam, still holding hands, left the office. The
sun was shining. The birds were singing. The street people
weren’t pissing on the sidewalk anywhere near his shoes. A
perfect day.
“I’ll admit, I got a little worried when you said you’ve had
sex with half of Europe,” she said. “I’d settle for half of Chelsea. Or all of Chelsea if she’s cute.”
“You disapprove?”
“I’m impressed.”
“You might not want me, but other people do.” “I think you’re very pretty,” Sam said, and patted him on
the arm.
“Thank you. Now tell me I have a good personality.” “Oh, get over it. You can have every other woman in the
city.”
“You’re right, I can,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “I can
fuck again.”
“You couldn’t fuck before?”
“I had to wait until I got my results back.”
“Is that why you went to Rome for two weeks?” “Among other reasons.”
“What did you do in Rome?”
“Learned the art of sadism from a notorious Roman madam.” “Please, tell me you have vacation slides.”
The car pulled up to the curb, but Kingsley stopped Sam
from getting in.
“I want you to do something for me,” Kingsley said. “Anything for you,” she said.
“You take the Rolls and go back to the house. Call everyone in my red book and invite them over tonight. Then go
buy a week’s worth of condoms.”
“I’ve never bought condoms before. What’s a week’s
worth?”
“I don’t know. A hundred? Wait. We’re having a party. Better make it a thousand.”
“What else?”
“Get big ones,” he said. “Since I’m—”
Sam stuck her fingers in her ears.
“La la la,” she sang. “Not listening…”
He pulled her hands from her ears.
“Call for food. Call for alcohol. We’re having a party.” “What kind of party?” she asked.
Kingsley grinned.
“Gotcha,” Sam said. “That kind of party.”
Sam took her marching orders and marched. He was glad
she hadn’t asked him where he was going. Since she hadn’t
made any progress digging for dirt on Reverend Fuller, he
decided to take matters into his own hands.
He hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in Queens.
He’d learned from Sam that Fuller had a small satellite office
in the city. They’d move into their larger quarters once The
Renaissance was remodeled.
The driver let him out at the end of the block and Kingsley
quickly found the WTL offices. They were housed in a threestory brick building wedged between a school and a run-down
apartment complex. Kingsley entered it warily feeling like a
soldier encroaching on enemy ground. In fact, everywhere
he looked he saw signs and posters warning of the dangers of
sin, the inevitability of judgment.
Are you ready to meet your Maker?
The way is narrow.
All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Flee from the wrath to come.
He studied another poorly designed poster that depicted
human beings stretching their arms toward heaven in supplication even as their lower bodies burned up in a fire. “Cheerful,” Kingsley said to himself.
He caught sight of another poster—an aborted fetus lying
on a bloodied blanket—with the words I formed you in the womb
underneath in a melodramatic font. A grotesque image,
it did
nothing to change his opinion about abortion and did everything to make him want to lose his lunch on the church carpeting. Did people truly find comfort or enlightenment in a
place like this?
He’d found comfort and acceptance back at St. Ignatius
Academy, the Catholic school where he’d met Søren. He
wasn’t Catholic, never had been, but the Jesuits at the school
had been hard-drinking, open-minded intellectuals. Jesuits
were notoriously liberal, at least by Catholic standards. He
remembered one brave boy in a social ethics class asking Father Henry under what circumstances an abortion could be
permitted. Father Henry had answered, “Never on an empty
stomach,” and the class had been too shocked to laugh for a
full five seconds.
Something told him abortion jokes wouldn’t be welcome
in this church.
“Awful, isn’t it?” Kingsley turned and saw a young woman
standing in the door to an office at the front of the church.
“That poster.”
Kingsley took the necessary two seconds to reorient his
brain, so he could speak without any trace of his French accent. “It is awful,” Kingsley agreed. “My religion forbids engaging in propaganda.”
“Excuse me?”
Kingsley gave her a placid, nonthreatening and therefore
entirely fake smile.
“I was wondering if Reverend Fuller was in. I’d like to
speak to him.”
“He’s not here,” she said with a nervous lilt in her voice.
The girl was pretty and could have been beautiful if she wasn’t
hiding under a shapeless f loral dress. She looked young, twenty
or twenty-one, and she had a sweet innocent gleam in her
eyes. “The WTL headquarters are in Stamford. He doesn’t
stop by here very often. He’s a busy man.”
“I hear he’s also a very godly man.”
The girl smiled broadly.
“He is. So inspiring. Reverend Fuller truly loves the Lord,
and his church loves him.”
“No one loves men of the cloth more than I do.” “My name is Chastity. Could I do something for you?” “No, Chastity does nothing for me.”
“Sir?”
“Actually you might be able to help me,” he said, walking
up to her and putting the bare minimum of socially required
distance between them as possible. “I have a friend. She has
a serious problem.”
“What sort of problem?”
“She’s a lesbian.”
Chastity’s eyes widened.
“That is a problem. Have you talked to her about it?” “I have. She’s unrepentant.” He exhaled heavily in faux
disappointment.
“Those people often are. The heart of the homosexual gets
hard the longer they stay in their sinful lifestyle.” “Yes, her heart is very hard. So hard it makes me hard.” “Oh, no, you can’t let your heart get hardened. God loves
a soft heart.”
“So I should be soft?”
“You should. Soft and open to God.”
“Are you soft and open, Chastity?”
The young woman blushed a little. When she spoke she’d
developed a slight stammer.
“I try to be. For God.” She coughed and took a small step
back. “So, you’re here because you’re worried about your lesbian friend and the life of sin she’s living?”
“I heard that Reverend Fuller’s church has programs to help
people like her. Camps, even. Is that true?”
“Yes, we do have some programs. There’s the New Paradise
program. It involves intensive reorienting therapy.” “New Paradise? Sounds promising.”
“It’s a program that helps homosexuals return to an existence like that of Eden and the Garden of Paradise.” “So, it’s a nudist colony?”
“No, silly.” Chastity blushed and giggled. Then she slapped
a hand over her mouth to silence herself. “In Eden it was Adam
and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”