Shouts of “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!” Brother Gramm flashes his smarmy smile, then continues.
“We have gathered to celebrate family.” He turns and nods to Railston. “Thank you, Miriam, for giving us this wonderful opportunity.”
Miriam smiles adoringly. If she only knew.
My seat suddenly gets harder, and I find myself squirming, trying to get comfortable. They still don’t see through that phony smile of his. But why am I surprised? My own parents didn’t see through him, and they knew him, worked with him all the time. Why should these strangers?
“In Proverbs 22, Verse 6,”—he holds up a Bible—“our Lord tells us, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he shall not depart from it.’ We, the parents, are commanded to take heed in the training of our children.
“You know, when I was a child, the world was a different place. The family was all important. We ate together, we worshipped together, and yes, we talked together….”
Visions of my home church… the altar steps… that slobbering mouth.
No… leave me alone… I whimpered, a pale helpless little boy. But no one heard me.
The audience laughs.
How can they laugh at what he is doing to me? Don’t watch. Stop him!
As my body jerks, I’m back, here, and I realize where the laughter had come from. I take a long, deep breath. Melissa glances at me and smiles.
She’s wrapped up in his every word. If I told her now what he did to me, she wouldn’t listen any more than my own mother did.
“We laugh now about that,” the preacher continues, “but my mother’s all-seeing, all-knowing ability was the key to my upbringing. I knew she cared.”
He steps from the lectern to the center of the stage. Just seeing him move is unnerving. Somehow if he’s tethered to the mic at the lectern, I’m protected from him. But no, I see he has a cordless body mic pinned to his lapel. The predator is free to roam. “Today, the world moves too fast. Young parents are out there chasing the almighty dollar, leaving their children to fend for themselves. Our children need our attention. We plug in the videos and plop the little ones in front of the TV. We let our older kids roam the neighborhoods after school.
“There is a menace out there—and it—is—us.” He punches the air with each word.
You can say that again, you scum. Sweat trickles down my forehead. I don’t like these feelings.
“Our children are suffering, suffering from rampant feminism, from rampant drug use, and from rampant homosexuality. If the working mothers don’t destroy the family, the drug dealers and the homosexual agenda will do it for them. They are out there—waiting to snatch our children.”
Hot bile jumps up into my throat. Like you snatched me?
“Children are a gift from God.”
“…a gift from God.” The words haunt me. Memories flood back. I hear Brother Gramm’s earlier words. Your body is a gift from God. Now the sweat pours from my forehead. You like it…. Did I? Did I like it? Is that why I can’t shake those memories after all these years? Is that why I never told anyone? Never told Aunt Jenny, who would have listened, who could have helped me? Is that why I don’t want Scott Scheer to find out about Brother Gramm?
I try to activate some blocking system deep down in me… shield me from what this monster is saying… what I am thinking. I stare at the spotlights.
Red, green, yellow, blue….
I try desperately to concentrate.
Orange, purple….
But the colors aren’t helping. They’d stopped helping me in the sanctuary so long ago. For all these years, they have only caused me pain, brought back the horrors I faced. They aren’t going to save me now. It’s a helpless feeling, to be powerless, to be nine years old again.
I try to concentrate on the sea of people held enraptured by this beast’s every word. But concentration eludes me. I want to scream, to rant. But they wouldn’t hear me. Just like my cries went unheard nine years before. I am trapped, doomed to listen to this hypocrite’s raving.
“Mark 9, Verse 37, ‘Whosoever shall receive one of such children in my name…’”
I try to consciously tune Brother Gramm out. I sing a tune in my mind, but the words of the sermon keep intruding. The one thing that can always take me out of reality—my music—is failing me now.
“We must cradle our children to our bosoms….”
What?
“Yes, cradle them,” Brother Gramm continues, “for when we do so, we are cradling our Lord. And each time we lose one of our precious babies to drugs or homosexuality, then we are rejecting our Father in heaven. Will we continue to reject our precious Savior?
“‘Train up a child in the way he should go.’ Show our children there is a better way. Make the family the center of their lives, so God can be the center of their universe. Show them they can reject drugs. Show them they can reject the gays and their sad lifestyle. Show your children they are loved. Hug them every day. They are gifts from God.”
You bastard! I stand, trying to shout out. But my voice is frozen. If only Satine were here. She would speak for me. I stand, realizing how ridiculous I am. Thinking of a girl I don’t even know, standing alone, with everyone watching me.
Melissa pulls me back down into my seat.
“I know he’s inspiring, Neil, but you’ve got to let him finish,” she whispers.
Inspiring? Is she blinded by him too? I fix my eyes on this liar, with his hundred-dollar haircut and his sharkskin suit.
How can you say all this with a straight face? You stand there shouting condemnation? You had sex with a nine-year-old kid!
“Today’s children are angry. And wouldn’t you be too? We ignore our kids. ‘Provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.’ There are no truer words. Nurture your children and they will love the Lord as you do. Bring them up to be angry, and they will turn away from the Lord.”
Nurture them? Like you did me? You and your vile body?
“Tonight, we heard this choir of angels lift its voices to glory in Miriam’s new song. Heed the message of that song. Luke 18:16 ‘…Jesus called them unto him and said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”’ The kingdom of God—” He smiles, that smarmy smile, at the crowd. “—the kingdom of God….” He lifts his hands to the heavens. Pure theater. I’m an expert at that. I know bad acting when I see it. “Such is the kingdom of God. The little children. Don’t turn them away. Love them. Nurture them. Embrace them.”
The bile gurgling up my chest is like molten steel. Nausea floods my whole body. I fight to keep from having to run to the nearest wastebasket.
“For they”—the preacher makes a sweeping gesture over the crowd, as if to point out each child in the group—“are the kingdom of God.
“Let me see a show of hands…. Parents, how many of you promise right now to dedicate your families to the Lord and put parenting in his hands?”
Hundreds of hands shoot up.
“Excellent. The Father will anoint you with blessings.
“And children, obey the word of our Lord in Ephesians 6, Verse 1, when he tells you, ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right.’ Look to your parents to teach you the Way. They will not steer you wrong.”
Yes, oh yes, when your parents tell you to help out your pastor, you must obey them. And you will be rewarded. I close my eyes, commanding the contents of my stomach to stay put.
“Now, won’t you join me in prayer…?” Brother Gramm bows his head, and like sheep, the crowd follows.
How could he do that to me?
“Father, right now, this very minute, we ask you to turn our lives around and make us better parents. And Father, some of us children have felt the anger, the wrath. We’ve felt abandoned, betrayed. We’ve been preyed upon by vultures, the drug dealers, the homosexuals.”
Yes, preyed upon, but not by t
he people you warn of, you scum, but by vultures like you. Tears leak as I sit, frozen, eyes closed. Willing myself to endure.
“Wrap your loving arms around us. Your gifts to the world. Turn, children, turn away from all the bad the world has dealt us. Let you now be sheltered in the arms of your parents. And, Father, if there are those out there who have no parents, or whose parents have turned away from them, then let others among us become their parents and honor these gifts from You as if they were our own. In Jesus’s Holy Name, amen.”
Like you honored me? I sob softly, spent. I feel angry, dirty, disgusted. But right now all I can do is cry. I can’t muster any other defense.
Melissa turns toward me and puts her arm around my shoulder, drawing me to her.
“Brother Gramm is very moving, isn’t he?” she whispers.
Chapter 23
I PICK up a bottle for what seems like the tenth time. They keep falling over. I’m tired; my mind is not on what I’m doing. Thoughts of Zane and what I did to him bounce around in my brain. Thank God Aunt Jenny was asleep when I got home last night. I didn’t have to rehash the whole thing. I didn’t have to lie to her. And that, too, bounces around. I have the greatest mother on earth. She would understand. And I can’t bring myself to confide in her. What a shit I am. A cowardly piece of steaming excrement.
And these stupid bottles won’t stay. But the exhibits open in fifteen minutes, so I have to push this all from my mind and get this Ring Toss Game set up.
The exhibit hall is buzzing with other volunteers busily assembling a dunking booth, a “go fish” pond, a “knock down the bottles,” and other carnival-type games. I look around me. There are even displays from medical clinics and hospitals, some insurance agents, plus an “adopt a pet” group.
The Family First exhibits would be great for the families attending the rally.
But Brother Gramm and his sermon keep intruding.
How could that man speak those words with a straight face? And what will I do if I run into him today? Will I run the other way? Do I have the courage to confront him?
“Wasn’t Brother Gramm wonderful last night?” Melissa says, placing the rings she’d unpacked on the counter. “He is a powerful speaker.”
I ignore her and concentrate on getting the booth ready—my only hope of maintaining my sanity.
She’d change her tune if she knew what that man did to me. But that’s something I can’t tell her. Not now, anyway. I’ve got to focus on my scholarship. No scandal.
So much for concentration.
“The Lord really blessed him with the Truth last night,” she continues. “What a wonderful man.”
Why won’t she shut up?
I want to scream at her, but instead I bolt from the booth, mumbling, “I’ll be right back.”
If she keeps gushing about that bastard, I may lose it.
I stop to pet a dog in one of the booths. I scratch behind the puppy’s ears. I hope you get adopted, little fella. You need some nice family to take you, love you, protect you. You need to find your Aunt Jenny.
Thinking about Aunt Jenny calms me a bit. She is unconditional love, as they say. I would never have survived without her. The love just keeps coming. It’s like she has so much it just naturally flows, like a Niagara Falls kind of love. I’m so glad she has Kris now. There is definitely enough love there for both of us, Kris and me.
Thinking of Aunt Jenny does this for me: they’re receding, thoughts of my mother’s denial, of Brother Gramm, of the spiders crawling up my back into their eternal box I keep for them, giving me a moment’s relief. But soon….
They are gifts from God.
Brother Gramm’s words echo in my brain. I focus on finding the men’s room.
Gifts from God? Was I your gift? Huh? Brother Gramm? A toy you could play with? Abuse? Torture? Ruin?
Zombie-like, I pass meeting rooms set up as Family First offices.
Your present? To do whatever you wanted to with?
I thrust open the bathroom door, lean over the sink, turn on the faucet. I splash cold water in my face. The icy water feels good. It both numbs and cleanses, making me feel less used. I turn the paper towel crank, then rip off a piece and dry my face.
As I pull open the door, a voice from across the hall thrusts me nine years into the past.
“Now, this will be our little secret. Run along and find your mother.”
Trembling, I step back into the men’s room, leaving the door open a slit. My nine-year-old eyes peer into the hallway, frightened.
Brother Gramm leads a child through the opposite doorway.
My God, he’s at it again!
On that child, I see a familiar face—my own… alone, terrified.
This can’t be happening.
I blink.
My nine-year-old face vanishes and another comes into focus. The face I now see is Miriam Railston’s son, Obadiah. And in his eyes, I see the helplessness I once felt—I still feel—with Brother Gramm.
A tiny sob escapes from deep within me. I’ve got to help Obadiah… snatch him away from that monster.
But I’m paralyzed.
Brother Gramm glances across the hall, and startled, I shut the door. I back away.
Did he see me?
I turn from side to side, frantically searching for a place to hide. I can’t let him find me.
I duck into one of the stalls, fearing Brother Gramm will burst into the bathroom at any minute. I cover my eyes with the palms of my hands, trembling in terror. I cower, gasping for air, listening for footsteps. I rub my back up against the stall’s partition, trying to stop the spiders from crawling all over it. I gasp again. The air is thin. I swallow, then gulp more cleansing oxygen, swallow again, breathe again, and on and on for what seems like fifteen minutes or more—until the air thickens and seems to give me some courage.
Finally, I listen. The stillness engulfs me. The door to the bathroom has remained closed, so Brother Gramm must not have seen me.
Stealthily, I open the stall door, peep into the void, creep out from the stall.
A sigh of relief. Tiny. Cautious.
I once again splash icy water on my face and let it calm me, and then I slowly step into the hallway.
At a snail’s pace, I make my way back toward the exhibits. My downcast eyes count the tiles in the floor. Anything to keep my mind focused—off of Obadiah Railston—off Brother Gramm.
“Pardon me, young man.” I stop. “I didn’t see you there. I guess I was lost in thought.”
I see the shiny shoes first, and then my head, as if by an invisible hand, is drawn upward.
When our eyes meet, I am certain Brother Gramm will recognize me. It’s the moment I’ve imagined over and over… meeting him again. Give me the courage to confront him.
Brother Gramm’s steely gray eyes pierce me, sending shivers up my spine.
“I was thinking about how truly blessed we are to have this rally, praise the Lord,” Brother Gramm intones. “Are you working the exhibits, my boy?”
My boy? Why not Neil? Why doesn’t he use my name? Doesn’t he know who I am?
“Y-y-yes,” I stammer. The prayer for courage is unanswered.
Have nine years changed me so much he doesn’t recognize me? Or does he forget us all once he gets what he wants?
“Keep up the good work, son.” Brother Gramm lays his hand on my shoulder. It burns like a hot firebrand. “Christ be with you.”
I stand, paralyzed, as the monster lumbers past me.
What am I going to do? The man hasn’t changed. I can’t let Obadiah suffer like I have. I can’t let Brother Gramm get away with this any longer. I have to tell someone.
I pick up one lead foot, then the other.
I’ve got to find Miriam. She has to know what that scum is doing to her son.
My steps falter.
Wait a minute. What will I tell her? I didn’t see anything. How will I explain how I know what Brother Gramm does to little boys? She’ll ask que
stions. I’ll have to explain my little secret.
I expel a long, hot stream of air, an air of defeat.
Miriam is just like all the rest, just like my dad, just like my mom. She won’t believe me either. Brother Gramm is a saint. That’s what they all think.
They’ll say I’m making it up. A man like their beloved Brother Gramm would never hurt little boys. Oh, no.
I turn back, take two steps.
But what about Obadiah? I can’t desert him. Wouldn’t Miriam want to help her own son?
Cemented to the floor, I look toward the rally offices. I try to pick up my feet. I urge my legs toward Miriam. But they feel as if they are encased in hardened concrete.
No. It’s too risky. I’ve worked hard to forget what happened to me. I can’t throw it all away. Obadiah will survive. I did.
What am I saying? He’s nine years old. I need to help him, to save him. I’ll do something, Neil….
In a fog, I find my way back to the ring toss.
Did I just call Obadiah Neil?
“I was about to send out a search party for you. Did you fall in the fountain? Your hair’s all wet. Where have you been?”
I am so deep in thought, so lost in my own helplessness it startles me when Melissa rushes me as I approach the booth.
“You missed Brother Gramm. He was just here.” She reaches out, moves my dripping hair off my forehead.
“Melissa….” I stop. You can do this, Neil. If you can tell Melissa, you can tell Miriam, and then it will all end. “You know all those stories about Catholic priests who have abused kids?”
“It’s disgusting, isn’t it? But when you forbid a man to marry, I guess he can go crazy. Thank the Lord, all our pastors are normal.”
“Well, I was just thinking, what if a pastor—like one of yours—did hurt little boys?”
Melissa cuts me off. “There is no way. That would never happen in our church. Every pastor I’ve ever known has been a wonderful man. They are very caring and loving. Take Brother Gramm, for instance….”
“Okay….” I’m on thin ice here. I try to soft pedal my revelation. “Say Brother Gramm was an abuser….”
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