Inclination

by Mia Kerick

  E. I could find a way to put myself out of my misery. As in, permanently. But isn’t this option also a sin?

  And then all I can see in my head are my mother’s eyes, red and puffy from days of crying over the loss of her son.

  This is the worst choice of all. Not going to happen.

  F. I could stay here in my car, staring out on the frozen church parking lot, hoping that Jesus will take the wheel.

  I go with F.

  When my Dad finds me just before midnight, I’m semi-asleep in my car, slumped over the steering wheel. He literally lifts me up, carries me from my car, and then belts me into his own car, speaking gentle words about how everything will be okay in the morning. I don’t respond to him at all, as I think I’m in a sort of emotional shock.

  What happens when I get home is also much of a blur. I can’t miss that Mom has been crying, but still she rushes toward me as soon as I have one foot through the front door.

  “You didn’t answer your cell phone, Anthony! We were terribly worried about you!” She hugs me, her tears dripping all over my face, and again I feel like a fraud.

  Mom is crying over the image in her mind of a good Catholic boy, her loving and obedient son, Anthony. But I’m not good, at least not according to Mrs. Martine, and I don’t know if I can be Catholic anymore.

  “I found him—he was exactly where you said he’d be, Gina.” Dad leads me down the hall and into the master bedroom. Mom follows along, stopping only to grab a set of sheets from the linen closet. And as Dad undresses me like he used to when I was a kid, Mom makes up the air mattress that they keep on the floor in the corner of their room, always ready and waiting for frequent, late-night “I’m scared of the monster under my bed!” visits from my sisters.

  They hover over me, kneeling on either side of the mattress, and kiss me one-by-one. Then they tell me they love me, right into my ear, and assure me that we will work everything out in the morning. I close my eyes.

  My parents don’t yet know that the monster in the Del Vecchio house isn’t crouched under a little girl’s bed, but is lying on the air mattress in the corner of the master bedroom room, trying to sleep.

  For the first night I can remember, I fall asleep without praying.

  Mom and Dad don’t wake me up to help with the breakfast zoo/mob scene/relay race. They don’t even wake me up for school.

  Dad never leaves to go to work either. After I hear the school bus drive away, the front door closes and I hear Dad’s voice, and then, maybe a minute later, Mom’s. They’re sticking around the house, waiting for me to wake up. Waiting to talk to me. I’m not going to make them wait any longer, although I’m not planning on spilling my big fat gay secret. I honestly have no plan at all for how I’m going to explain last night’s behavior. Which probably spells trouble.

  When I get downstairs Mom and Dad are in the kitchen, sitting on the barstools at the island, sipping coffee, and speaking in low tones. I can hear a Veggie-tales Christian video for children playing in the living room and know that Lulu will be basically spellbound for its duration, which gives us a good hour to talk.

  My parents regard me as if I’m the creature from the black lagoon when I enter the kitchen. Mom’s eyes are puffy; it’s clear she’s been crying again this morning. Dad looks like he aged a decade overnight. I figure I don’t look much better.

  “Anthony!” Mom gushes, unable to stop herself from coming to me and taking me in her arms. “Talk to us about what’s going on, please….”

  Dad is behind her. “Son, last night your behavior was very disturbing, and very unlike you. You always let us know where you are…and you never came home and….” His voice transcends from angry to worried to desperate and then trails off.

  I stand there in nothing but my white T-shirt and plaid boxers, feeling so small, and I glance blankly back and forth from one of them to the other until Mom takes charge of the situation. She places her hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Sit down, Anthony. It is long past time we talked.”

  Without a word, I gently shake myself free of her grasp and go to the kitchen table, taking my usual seat. Mom and Dad join me, choosing their usual seats as well, so we end up scattered around the big table.

  Finally, I speak. “There’s no place for me in the church I love.”

  Mom again focuses her eyes on me, and her words cut through any hope of me pretending. “Are you gay?”

  Dad doesn’t gasp in surprise at her question. It’s obvious that they have discussed this possibility. I wonder if he’ll avert his eyes from me, in total disgust that he even has to entertain the possibility that his son is so abnormal, but he doesn’t. My father’s gaze stays glued to mine, slightly bewildered, but not appalled.

  “No…no, of course I’m not gay.” Although I pretty much came out and told them the truth with what I first said, my impulse is still to lie…to hide my shame.

  The absence of further conversation proves that they don’t believe me.

  “It won’t change the way we love you, you know, if you think you are like that.” Dad offers me that bit of consolation, but I note what he said was “you are like that” not “that you are gay.” He can’t even use the real words to describe “The Problem” his son is suffering with.

  My eyes fill with tears, just like my mother’s. She swallows and says, “We spoke with Abby Martine, as we knew that you had a meeting with her last night. And we didn’t know where you were, and it was eleven, and we were getting worried and so we called her and….” Mom rarely rambles.

  When I hear that news—my parents have talked to Mrs. Martine—I literally jolt back in my chair, almost falling off of it. Not to mention that for the life of me I can’t get a breath.

  “She told us… Abby told us that she asked that you no longer participate in Our Way because of your admission to being homosexual… and we know how important your youth group is to you and….” Mom’s crying in earnest now. The word sobbing fits the bill much better. And it’s all because of me.

  “I, uh…well, she’s wrong. I’m not gay.” It still seems easier to deny the truth than to face it. “I’m a Christian… so I’m not gonna be gay anymore.” I realize I have confirmed their suspicions.

  Again, it’s quiet in our kitchen, with the exception of the sound of Mom and me crying.

  “I don’t know that you have much control over your sexuality, Tony.” Dad suggests, in contradiction of my last statement, but he still looks and sounds puzzled. “But maybe…you know, maybe this thing’s just a phase that you’ll someday grow out of.” Along with those words, I clearly see hopefulness on his face, which cuts deep into my heart.

  I lift my head from my hands and stare at him, wondering if he actually believes human sexuality can be that fluid. I certainly don’t know the answer for the rest of the world—maybe for some people it is—I only know about myself. My gayness isn’t a phase. I’ve always been this way. I always will be too.

  But he continues. “You know, son, if you give it time, a young lady might come along who will make you forget you ever felt this way.” I first notice that he again refuses to utter the term for what I am: gay. He referred to my gayness as “like that”, “this thing” and “this way”. He can’t even make himself utter the distasteful word, which hurts and makes me worry where he stands on this issue. And I can’t miss the hopefulness in his voice when he suggests that the right girl hasn’t come along yet.

  “Paul, you aren’t helping.” Mom sighs, and I realize that she must have noticed the same things. She runs her hands through her long graying brown curls, pain and shock and maybe even guilt visible on her face, and then she takes a deep breath. “We love you—it’s that simple. Please level with us so we can help…no, that’s not what I meant to say. Please be honest with us, and then we can be there for you.” After a brief hesitation, she voices the first helpful words ever offered to me on the subject. “After all, Anthony—who are we to judge?”

  Mom looks at me,
but I find myself turning away from her to gaze at Dad, and as I do, I hold my breath. I need to gauge my father’s reaction to the possibility of having a gay son. First he shrugs and that befuddled expression lingers, but then he nods as if he’s relieved that Mom put words to his own convoluted thoughts.

  “I’m certainly not without sin, Tony. I won’t be casting any stones.” Dad hasn’t acknowledged that acting on my homosexuality isn’t a sin in his eyes, but he has given me the acceptance I need to be honest about who I am within the confines of our home. And then he says words that let me know he’ll support me no matter what. “I think I need to go talk to Father Joseph. That woman, Abby Martine, was wrong in what she did—you are a good boy, in fact, you are one of the best—and she is the one who needs to find a new group to worship with.”

  The warmth of my father’s love, demonstrated by how he has changed his tune quickly and radically in order to accept and support me, thaws every frozen corner of my heart. But I still protest. “No, Dad. Please don’t do that. Instead, can…can I go to the Catholic Church in Lampert for the next few weeks? Until I’ve had a chance to think.”

  “You will not be attending church alone in Lampert. Our family will attend Mass with you.” Dad is really stepping up for his gay kid. I’m not sure how to feel about his fledgling support.

  “I’ll call Saint Mark’s and talk to the Sunday school teachers. I’ll let them know that for personal family reasons the girls will not be in CCD classes for an undetermined period of time.” Mom is already thinking details. “We already have the catechism books, Anthony, so we can go over the girls’ lessons with them here.”

  But I can’t make the girls suffer for my… my problem. “No, Mom. Don’t do that. Let the girls keep on doing what they usually do. This has nothing to do with them.”

  Then a weird thing happens. My parents both turn, at the exact same time, to look at me—to gawk at me, more accurately—like they’re joined at the neck. Dad abruptly gets up from his seat and walks over to my chair. “In case you forgot, son, we are the Del Vecchio’s. We love God and He comes first. We will continue to provide our children with an opportunity to worship and learn about Him. But we are also a family, and as such, we will worship together as a family.”

  In this brief conversation in my kitchen, I have witnessed my father’s mind as it changed. Dad has gone from uncertain to accommodating in a matter of minutes. I recognize his love for me, not that I doubted it before—but this conversation reaffirms it. He knows my heart and he adjusts to who I am.

  Time for another confession. “I want you to know that I never spent too much time worrying about how you guys would react to me being gay because I’ve been obsessed with my relationship with God. And I’ve been trying so hard to not be gay and worrying about going to hell and….” I’m being as honest as I know how to be. “God was all that mattered when I thought about what it meant to be gay.”

  “Of course, Anthony. That is as it should be.” Mom stands up and comes to stand beside Dad. Like always, they present a united front.

  “I didn’t imagine myself actually telling you guys. I was wrapped up in accepting it myself.”

  “Well, Abigail Martine did not keep your confidence,” Mom says, shaking her head. “She was extremely eager to inform us, it seems. And…and we were informed before it was the time of your choice.”

  “And now you guys know what I’ve even barely accepted about myself…and I still don’t know what it means for my life…and I just….” I don’t know how to express my profound confusion in regard to how my gayness affects my Christianity. I allow a single sigh and then a sob.

  “Well, the good thing is,” Mom lays her hand beside my father’s hand, which is placed at the base of my neck, “now there are three of us to figure this whole thing out. And we’ll do it the Del Vecchio way—together.”

  Although I never considered telling my parents about “The Problem”—at least not in the near future—the deed is done and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I’m not totally alone in this anymore.

  He Knows

  In my car on the way to the coffee shop near the church where I’m meeting my friends, I listen carefully to the lyrics of one the songs I found in the old hymnal and made a CD of from the YouTube video. It’s called “He Knows”. I specifically chose this hymn for the short ride to the café, hoping it would give me courage. And every time it concludes, I replay it, but somehow I’m still afraid.

  I know not what awaits me,

  God kindly veils my eyes,

  And o’er each step of my onward way

  He makes new scenes to rise;

  And every joy He sends me comes

  A sweet and glad surprise.

  And every hour in perfect peace I’ll sing,

  He knows, He knows.

  I invited those who I considered my closest friends, among them Laz, Elizabeth, Eric, Emma, and Kerry Parker, to meet me tonight at the Cuppa Cafe because there’s something I need to tell them. I had to think long and hard in regard to whether or not I should invite Rinaldo, as he had been the one who’d come up with the “all gay people should be forced to drink poison Kool-Aid” idea, but I finally elected to ask him to come, too. I might as well get it over with in one big fell swoop, rather than drag it out.

  I purposefully arrive about fifteen minutes late, as I want everyone to already be here when I come in. I’m not prepared to make small talk in the interim, as my friends straggle in, one-by-one. And this is in no way a party that I’m hosting. It’s a necessary get together that I called so I could make a statement—a statement I need to make myself, in my own way, or Mrs. Martine might very well make it for me when the kids in Our Way start asking her questions.

  Despite the song’s assurances that God will go before me, I’m freaking out.

  I force myself to turn off the car’s engine, slide from my car, and drag my feet across the parking lot to the café entrance.

  “You called the meeting, Anthony, and then you don’t show up on time. We were all starting to wonder if you were even gonna show up at all.” From her spot in the corner, Emma glares at me, her eyes accusing, but as I scan the group I see that my strategy has worked—everyone is already here. I will only have to make my big gay announcement once. “So what’s up with that?”

  “Why couldn’t you drive me over, bro?” Laz seems confused. I usually drive him everywhere. “I called your house and your folks told me you already left. What’s the deal?”

  I choose to simply smile at Laz and ignore his question.

  Elizabeth still wears the identical expression of hostility that I saw on her face Friday night, just prior to the door slam. She says nothing.

  Kerry looks as if she wants to raise her hand to ask a question, but she decides to throw caution to the wind and go for it. “Um…Anthony, I’m wondering why you wanted to meet us here. The Our Way meeting starts in forty-five minutes. And, like, it’ll take fifteen minutes for us to walk over there, so….”

  Emma finishes her thought. “So we don’t have much time Anthony. What did you call us here to talk about?”

  I know not what awaits me.

  I sit down among my friends, take a deep breath, blow it back out, and close my eyes for a second. “I’m no longer a member of Our Way. I wanted to tell you before you guys find out for yourselves.”

  Six chins drop.

  “What?” Elizabeth breaks down first. “What are you talking about? You can’t quit—you’re an officer!”

  This next part is going to be harder. “I didn’t quit.”

  I can tell that Kerry wants to raise her hand again. But finally she shrugs and waits for my explanation.

  “What’s up wit’ that, man? How come you’re outta the group?” Laz looks shell-shocked and he doesn’t try to hide it. “Spill the details, dude. Like, ASAP.”

  My friends all stare at me.

  God kindly veils my eyes.

  “Mrs. Martine asked me to leave the group.�
��

  Six gasps. But no one asks why.

  So I tell them. No fanfare, no drum roll—I just state it, “I’m gay. Mrs. Martine suggested that I find another teen worship group.”

  All I can do now is wait for their reactions. It hadn’t been fun, but I’d said what needed to be said.

  Rinaldo’s face twists with fury or disgust—it’s hard to say which—but he holds his tongue.

  “You can’t be gay, dude.” Laz is the first to comment. “You’re my pal, you have my back. Nah, you gotta be wrong.”

  Elizabeth speaks next. “That’s why our date was a total disaster….” She smiles.

  Even Kerry manages to find her lost voice. “Isn’t being gay a sin?”

  And Emma replies, “Yeah, Kerry, it ranks up there with having an abortion and getting divorced and remarried.” She turns to again glare at me. “It’ll send you straight to hell, you know, Anthony.”

  And o’er each step of my onward way….

  The remarks don’t end there. And with them, any hope I had of loving acceptance disappears.

  “That’s disgusting. Mrs. Martine was right to boot your ass. And good luck finding a Christian youth group that’ll take in a fag.” Rinaldo, the normally submissive guy hovering in the back of the room, stands up and sends me a look to kill. “I’m gone.”

  We all watch him leave. And then Eric, who hasn’t spoken yet, makes a generous offer, “We’ll pray for your soul in Our Way tonight.” As usual, his voice lacks any trace of passion.

  The others nod in agreement; they’re going to pray for my wayward soul. I try to smile but the effort is wasted. Because I’m empty of all emotional expression, too—void of grins and tears and bitten lips and pinched arms and clenched palms. And I have nothing else to say, really. Neither do they. I watch as my friends since my First Holy Communion get up, one-by-one, and leave the coffee shop without looking back at me a single time. My heart withers a bit with each departure.

  He makes new scenes to rise.