Thinking Straight

by Robin Reardon

  “And have you had time to think about the things you wrote in here?” And she holds up the MI. I nod. “You may take the sticker off now.” I do, and she takes it away from me. “Where have those thoughts led you?”

  One thing I’d been thinking about a lot since my circle meeting is that discussion we had about sin, and I was wondering if Harnett did something that felt like sin to me but that led to something good, was it sin? And how much credit or blame does she deserve?

  I tell her, “You’re in a weird spot. I mean, your role. It’s like you have to teach, but you can’t teach anything important just by telling. So I don’t even know how much of what I’ve thought about is what you intended, or if any of it’s coming to me the way you expected it to.”

  She sits back in her chair, nods slowly two or three times, and closes her eyes. I almost get the feeling she’s about to cry. Finally she opens her eyes again and says, “What has come into your heart?”

  “Love. I felt lots of love last night when no one wanted to say anything to make me feel bad. Well, almost no one.”

  Her smile is so personal, I don’t think she knows she’s doing it. “And what’s the lesson? Can you articulate it?”

  “I can’t be humble just by deciding to be humble. And I can’t love just by deciding to do that, either. And I can’t do any of it alone.”

  “You need God?”

  Well, what I was thinking was, I needed the other kids, but she isn’t wrong. So I say yes.

  She digs in her desk for a minute and comes up with a digital camera. And before I can believe she’s going to, she takes my picture. I’d forgotten about that; Strickland had done that last Sunday before he’d turned me over to Charles. It takes a minute for her to upload the image to her computer, and while she’s working on it, she tells me that there may be other photos as well. It’s to show us residents how even our facial expressions change when we let the Program help us. When she turns the screen so I can see it, both shots of me are there.

  “Take a good look at these two faces,” she says. Then, “What do you see? How are they different?”

  The first one looks pretty much like I’d expect. “Fuck you” was what I’d wanted to communicate, and I had. The second one—well, it’s much harder to describe. But I try. “It’s like I’ve gone from hating the world to being puzzled by it.”

  “Would it be fair to say that the puzzled one also looks open?”

  I look again. “Yeah. I mean, yes, ma’am. It does.” I kind of hate to admit it to her. But it does.

  She turns the screen back and closes the program. “Taylor, you are at a crucial point right now. Before, you were stuck. But now you’re in motion. At the moment you’re moving in the right direction for you; and as a result, you’re moving toward God.”

  She waits to see if I have anything to say, but I don’t. Not yet. So she says, “I told you yesterday that you’d impressed your brothers and sisters. And I think you believed I was talking about the way you delivered your Public Apology. Yes?”

  Funny; when Nate had used that phrase last night, it hadn’t sounded like it had capital letters. “Yes.”

  “There’s another way you’ve impressed those who have been here a while and those who have returned. The expression in the image I just took of you is one we don’t usually see in residents until well into their stay, if at all. I tell you this because there are people who will say something about this rapid progress. Some of them will say it in honest respect, and some will say it with a derogatory tone. And you must listen to none of them. If you do, you run the danger of getting stuck again. It wouldn’t be in the same place, but our lives must be a constant movement toward God. We can’t afford to let pride or anger or anything hold on to us, pin us down. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I do, actually. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “If you feel you’re getting stuck, don’t limit your struggles to your own prayers. God works through others to help us. Talk to me, talk to Charles, talk to John, talk to Nate. We all love you, Taylor. And we’re all here to help each other.” We sit there and breathe for a few seconds. “Would you like to say anything at this point?”

  “I’m wondering why my room was searched.”

  The look on her face is not what I expect. Smug, righteous, maybe even saccharin, I would have understood. Instead what I see is something like apprehension, or fear. Just for a second. Just for a split second. Then she says, “Why do you think?”

  “Nothing was missing, so I’m thinking it was to leave something.”

  “Like what?” Her back is up a little; maybe she thinks I mean they bugged the room?

  “Like a message. Like, be afraid. Be very afraid.”

  “Are you afraid, Taylor?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you know what a metaphor is?”

  “It’s like an example, something that represents something else.”

  “That’s right. And it isn’t only a room that could be searched.”

  “So…you mean, like, searching my heart?”

  “Anyone’s. Doesn’t Charles have a heart, too?”

  “Charles’s heart doesn’t need searching.”

  “Taylor, everyone’s heart needs searching. Including yours.”

  “But you can’t do that.”

  “But we can help you, or Charles, to do it for yourself. And none of us can predict when it’s going to happen to us next.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me.”

  “I think I already have.”

  I look hard at her. I don’t think she knows why it was searched, or whether it was me or Charles who was supposed to get the message, and I don’t think she knew it had even happened until I put it in my MI. I think she invented a reason that might maybe just possibly make sense—that comparison between searching rooms and searching hearts. All things considered, this last response of hers seems pretty lame. But if she doesn’t know, then it won’t do any good to try and worm any more out of her. Plus it wouldn’t help to…um…get stuck on that, would it?

  Again, no sign of Will during afternoon break, and I manage to get Nate alone to ask about this morning; no Will then, either. He’s been carrying my note around, and I get the sense it’s beginning to weigh on him; what if it’s found?

  After the break Sean pulls me into the office and asks me to work with a guy I haven’t even spoken to yet. I’ve noticed him a few times, mostly in the break yard and in some corner of the Fellowship room. He’s wiry, angry looking, a tough kid. Quite a few tattoos.

  Sean says, “His name is Terry. Terrence. He may tell you to call him T, but don’t do it. We’re trying to get him to leave that FI behind him.”

  A gang handle, I wonder? “Sean, I’m not sure I’m the best person to deal with this guy.”

  “Nate says you are.” Like that puts an end to it. “He’s out of SafeZone, but he’s struggling.”

  “What’s he in here for?”

  “That’s not supposed to matter.”

  “Maybe not, but most times it does anyway.”

  He ignores me. “I need you to show him how to clean the dryers.”

  Oh boy. My favorite. “Why me?”

  “I’ve got to work with a new kid. Even more of a problem—I mean, someone who’s struggling even more than Terry. You’ll need to stay with him to make sure it’s done right.”

  “Why does it need to be done at all? I just did it earlier this week. And nobody stayed with me.”

  “Taylor, cut it out, will you? Just do it? Besides, you didn’t do all of them, and you know where you stopped.”

  I sigh. “Where’s the doohickus?”

  Somehow Sean knows exactly what this is and fetches it from a cabinet, and I take it out onto the floor and look around for Terry. He’s slouching, hands in his pockets, as he leans against a dryer about as far away from everyone else as he can get. If I think the clothing we have to wear here isn’t the real me, it’s even less the real him. It see
ms like he’s willing the prescribed stuff to fall right off his body.

  “Wish me luck,” I throw over my shoulder at Sean, and head toward Terry. He sees me coming but looks away like I’m of absolutely no consequence to him.

  “Hi,” I say, holding my hand out. “I’m Taylor.” He looks at me but totally ignores my outstretched hand. “Fine,” I say, and shrug. “I didn’t ask for you, either, y’know. But we’re stuck with each other.”

  He scowls at me a second and then looks away again. I try another tack. Sarcasm, though I have to hide it in here. “‘See how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to live together in unity!’ Psalm one thirty-three.”

  He moves his jaw like he’s chewing on gum or maybe tobacco, glances at the clock on the wall, and says, “Leave me the ‘eff’ alone. T two fifty-three.”

  At first I don’t get it. But when I do, I laugh. It looks like he’s trying not to.

  “Okay,” I tell him when I think I have his attention, even though he’s still not looking at me. “I’m a T too, y’know. For Taylor. But some people don’t call me Taylor. Some people call me Ty.” I can see Will’s face looking at me over Terry’s shoulder, tongue nearly protruding through his cheek. “So what if they don’t want you to call yourself T in here? Do them one better. How about if I call you Rye?”

  He looks at me like he’s trying to pretend he’s not interested. “Rye?”

  “Sure. R-y-e. Covers a few bases. R and y are the last two letters of the name Terry. Put an e on the end, and either you’ve got a kind of bread or a grain they make liquor out of. Make them wonder. Plus it sounds like w-r-y, which strikes me as something along the lines of how you’d like people to see you.”

  “Rye.” I can’t tell whether he’s making fun of me or giving the idea serious consideration.

  “Look, why don’t you mull that over while I show you how to use the magic wand?” I wave the doohickus in the air toward the dryers.

  He gets in a few more gnaws on his nonexistent gum and then says, “Fine. So show me.”

  He catches on to the routine right away. I even manage to get a few grumbled phrases out of him about how he’s helped his black-sheep uncle work on car engines, making it clear that cleaning out dryers isn’t much of a challenge for him.

  We get to one dryer that has an OUT OF ORDER sign on it. He unplugs it anyway, which he should, but after he’s cleaned it he opens the door to the tumbling chamber and plays with it a little. Then he walks around behind the machine, lifts off a panel, and pokes around.

  “I could fix this.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  He looks at me and then over at Sean across the room. “Captain Bligh there would have a friggin’ cow.”

  I’m amazed he has that literary reference at his command, but I try not to show it. “Why don’t you start on the next machine and I’ll ask.” Rye shrugs (see how I’ve incorporated his new name already?) and moves on, and I head over to Sean.

  I say, “Terry thinks he can fix that broken dryer. Is it okay if he has a try?”

  “The repairman will be here next Tuesday.”

  “So what have we got to lose?”

  “If he makes a mess of it, the repairman will know. The center will be in trouble with its maintenance contract.”

  “Sean, it’s the one thing the guy has that he thinks we value, and he volunteered. I think it’s worth the risk.”

  He stands there looking torn; he knows it’s a good idea, but he’s afraid, I can tell. I know him now. So I say, “If he screws it up, you can blame me.” And I walk away like it’s a done deal.

  Someone, maybe Machiavelli, maybe the Little Prince, once said something about not giving an order you know will be disobeyed. Rye is already up to his elbows in dryer parts by the time I get back to him.

  “Find the problem?” I ask, like I have any idea what he’s doing.

  Teeth gritted in effort, arm deep into the dryer innards, he grunts and then says, “Get me a long screwdriver. Phillips head.”

  I look in Sean’s direction again to see that he’s come closer. “Toolbox in the office?” I ask.

  “In the cabinet to the left of the door. Lower drawer.”

  By the time Rye is finished, the dryer is working. Sean comes up, holding a note toward me. “Here. Go with Terry to the bathroom so he can wash his hands.”

  “Rye,” Rye says to him.

  “What?”

  “The name is Rye. Don’t call me Terry.” And he heads for the door, me in his wake.

  Well, well, I’m thinking as I stand there watching him scrub grease from his hands. So he took it. My name for him. And if I so much as say one word about it, it’ll be gone. My eyes travel up to the tattoo on his neck—a spiderweb, extending down his shoulder past where I can see, with a black spider below his ear. The tattoo is black, but the spider’s eyes are red.

  I ask, “What’re you in for?”

  He shrugs. “The usual. Theft. Drugs.”

  “What’d you steal?”

  “Cars.” Cars. Plural. He adds, “You?”

  “Gay.”

  He grabs a paper towel and wipes up to his elbows with it. “That’s bullshit.” He throws the towel into the trash and walks away, leaving me wondering whether he meant that he doesn’t believe I’m gay or that gay kids shouldn’t be sent here. I decide to believe the second. I also decide not to report him for swearing.

  Sean’s watching the door, and as soon as we’re back he comes over to us. Rye starts to go around him, but Sean steps in front of him and extends a hand.

  “Thanks, Rye.”

  Rye looks at his face, finally nods, and gives Sean’s hand one shake.

  At five thirty I show up at the appointed spot to meet John and Rick for barbeque-setup detail. They’re there waiting for me, along with another guy. I haven’t seen him before. He’s stunning—nice build, grey-green eyes, and very dark hair; I’d have remembered him.

  John says, “Taylor Adams, this is Peter Connors. He’s going to help us, too.”

  We move a lot of stuff out onto the grounds. There’s a tent already set up, and we have to move the tables and some chairs, and the paper plates and stuff, and get them ready for the big event. There’s a few other kids helping, too. I guess they have a different drill sergeant, and we have brother John. But it beats just hanging around and waiting for this thing to start. Peter doesn’t talk a lot, but he does his share of work and more.

  He pulls me over at one point and asks, “Do you know anything about setting up a sound system?”

  “For what? What do you mean?”

  “There’s a Christian band coming tonight. We need to set up. Wanna help with that?”

  Well, of course I do. So he tells John we’re headed that way, and off we go. I don’t know much about it, but Peter sure does.

  “I used to do a lot of this,” he tells me. “My brother has a band, and I’ve helped them set up. I can’t do anything musical to save my soul, but I love the electronics.”

  I can’t say I learn a lot—mostly I run cables and connect things Peter tells me to connect—but he does his best to explain it. And one thing I really like is that he laughs. Not many people around here laugh, and that absence is something you notice more when it does happen than when it doesn’t.

  Before long, kids are starting to arrive, and it gets crowded quickly. The band is still warming up and testing things when Peter and I head for the food tables. It’s an interesting arrangement: boys go along one side of the tables and girls on the other. We’re most of the way along our side, food piling up, when I ask him about this.

  “You know how we’re supposed to be courteous, especially around women? Well, this is a bit of a reprieve. Rather than making all the guys wait for all the girls to get their dinner, we just get our own side. Works out much better this way!” He grins and holds up his plate, which is about to overflow. And in fact, it does. We’re watching stuff tumble off—a roll, a piece of corn-on-the-cob—and there’
s no good place for us to set down our plates and do something about it. We’re laughing like idiots when I finally manage to find a spot on the table beside me where I can set my own plate down. I bend over to retrieve Peter’s fallen food, laughing still, and when I stand up again I’m looking across the table and staring right into the face of Marie Downs. She lowers her eyes, which puzzles me, because I would have expected her to spout scripture at me about unseemly behavior or wasting resources.

  And then I see the yellow sticker on her blouse.

  You know, maybe a few days ago that would have made me feel like gloating. I would have been delighted to see her in disgrace. But that’s not how I feel. She looks up again, and what I do feel must show in my eyes, because she turns away. What I feel now is sympathy. And from the way she reacts, it probably makes her feel worse than if I looked gloating. When someone gloats, it’s like they give you something you can rebel against. You can deny the disgrace. But when someone feels sorry for you, there’s no way to deny the reality of how you feel about yourself.

  “You okay?” Peter asks. He’s holding out a napkin for the dropped bits.

  I snap out of it. “Yeah. Here you go.”

  We decide to sit on the lawn. It leaves more chairs for the girls, and we can get closer to the band. We don’t talk much, and I spend lots of time wondering if Peter is gay. There’s no way I can do a real test here; so many people would see if I so much as sit too close to him. I’ve just about worked up the guts to ask why he’s here when John plunks himself down on the ground on the other side of me. He seems to have lost Rick someplace.

  “They have a great sound, don’t they?” he asks. Like anyone needs to say so. He goes on about nothing in particular, and I swear mostly what he’s doing is trying to keep me from being able to focus on Peter.

  I decide to take advantage of his special position. I ask, “I saw Marie Downs at the table. She’s in SafeZone. Do you know why?”

  “Brother Taylor, if that’s for you to know, you will be told.”

  Well, this seems unfair; I’m sure people talked about me. They must have.

  By the time the evening ends, Peter has gone off somewhere, and I’ve tried and failed to figure out what it means to “accompany” someone to this kind of Activity. Charles and Danielle sit together, but as far as I can tell, they’re just hanging out. Other kids come and talk to them like there’s nothing along the lines of a date going on. But the truth is, there’s not likely to be anything, really, going on between Charles and Danielle.