by Mia Kerick
“You may leave now, Anthony.”
I stumble up the stairs, pull the door closed, and make a break for the safety of my car.
Which brings me back to now… beaten and disgraced in the church parking lot.
I’m not ready to go anywhere and…
I need to think and…
I have to sort this out.
It’s dark and cold in my car…and in my life.
Oh God, what did I do to deserve this? How did I end up this way?
There For Me
I’ve been sitting here in my car for well over an hour, probably closer to two hours, thinking it all through—how I arrived at this dismal spot in my life—but I haven’t sorted anything out. However, thinking back about how I’ve gone from being a slightly confused, but relatively happy, Catholic kid to a beaten up social pariah who needs an intervention to save his soul, actually gives me a measure of perspective on my problem.
I need to decide where I stand on gay Christianity. Sooner, rather than later, if possible. I still don’t know if I’ve actually done anything to deserve my bleeding lip, my swollen eye, the pain in my side, and the loss of my friends and my youth group, but at least I know how I ended up this way. I guess that’s all I know for sure.
And not knowing what else to do, I pull my cell phone out of my jeans pocket.
He parks behind me on Lincoln Street and hops in the passenger seat of my car, and after taking one glance at me, sputters, “Shit, dude.”
“Yeah, I know.” It hurts to talk. My bottom lip is split wide open.
“Rinaldo Vera did this to you?”
“Uh huh… David, I can’t go home looking like this. My mom will lose it.”
He nods in full agreement. “Yup, she will. Nothing personal, but you don’t look too good right now.” He lifts his hand, and I think he’s going to reach up and touch my lip, but then his hand falls back to his lap. I’m unspeakably disappointed. “Come back to my house. We can clean you up some before you head home.” David doesn’t make a move to get out of the car, though. And he keeps on staring at me. “You…uh…you need to go to the hospital or anything?”
I’m not sure what “or anything” refers to. “No. I’m okay. He only hit me twice.”
“Um…maybe you need to see the dentist?”
I’ve already checked my teeth and none are loose. “Nah, I’m good.” I’m about the opposite of good, but the process of “coming out” is turning me into a rather adept liar.
Then David surprises me. He reaches out and grasps my shoulders. “This isn’t right, Tony.” He holds my shoulders with a firm grip, which is exactly what I need. Actually, what I really need is a hug, like the kind your mom would give you when you were seven and you fell off your bike and skinned your knee and elbow badly. “Wanna get in my truck?”
I probably shouldn’t be driving. I can only see out of my left eye, but I refuse. “No, I can drive myself. I’ll follow you.”
It seems as if he doesn’t want to let me go. Finally, though, he nods and lets his hands to drop. “Okay, but I’m gonna follow you.”
I know he called his Mom on the way home because she’s waiting for us at the front door. “Oh, honey! Oh, dear—you’re a mess!” She comes running out onto the front steps when we approach.
Gabby and David each take hold of an arm and they help me into the kitchen. I’m incredibly thankful for Gabby’s non-stop, nervous chattering, and the fact that it doesn’t seem to matter much to her if I respond. Answering questions is not high on my list of things I want to do at this particular moment in time.
“Oh, honey, that boy got you good—your bottom lip—well, I don’t know if it could use a stitch…it’s completely split. And what happened to the back of your head…oh, my goodness…is that gravel in there? Tony, you are gonna have a shiner tomorrow under your right eye…. Let me clean the cut…and I hope this one on your lip doesn’t leave a scar!”
David and I sit silently in the same two chairs we sat in earlier today, my one-eyed gazed locked onto his. I notice that the same clutter fills the table—all of David and his mom’s research on why God loves gay Christians. When I was here before, I felt like the doors of hope were opening to me. This time I’m bloody and battered—those hopeful doors slammed cruelly in my face. I don’t feel loved by anyone at the moment, let alone by God.
As she cleans my face and the back of my head, Gabby continues rambling. “I need to call your parents, Tony. They need to look at you and decide if you should see a doctor. And they can take you down to the police station so you can press charges.”
My left eye gets round. “Press charges?”
“This ‘Rinaldo’ boy, well, he assaulted you. We need to take this type of hateful violence very seriously.” She steps back to get a wide-angle view of me. “Did he hurt you anywhere else?”
I shake my head. She doesn’t need to see what’s throbbing like a rock band’s bass drum beat underneath my shirt.
“What’s your home phone number, Tony? I’ll call and tell your folks where we live. They can come over and get you.”
Again, I shake my head. “Thank you, Gabby, but I can drive myself home.”
David leans in toward me and says quietly, “Forget that, dude. Ma’s not gonna let you drive anywhere.”
So instead of arguing, I tell David’s mother my Dad’s cell number and she heads off to use the phone.
“What happened tonight, Tony? How come you were at St. Mark’s, anyway?” David pulls his chair closer to mine.
I relish the nearness of his body; it makes me feel safe. I pull my chair even closer to his, where I can better feel his heat. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this needy. “On my way home from your house this afternoon, Laz called and said that Our Way wanted to meet with me tonight.” I’m trembling noticeably and make a conscious effort to stop. “Remember that intervention thing they did for that senior guy, back when we were freshmen?”
He thinks for a second and then nods, ignoring my shaking. “The boozer dude?”
“Y-yeah.”
Then it hits him. “They did one of those interventions for you? Cuz you’re gay?”
I nod a couple of times. “Quoted the Conference of Catholic Bishops’ decision on how to treat an individual with a ‘homosexual inclination.’ Then they read a bunch of Bible verses and ended by saying whatever came to mind.”
“That’s fucked up!” I note that David, while sporadically gritting his teeth in an effort to stay calm, can’t stop his nostrils from flaring in fury. “What did you do?”
“What c-could I do? I just s-sat there.” Yes, I’m still trembling. It’s embarrassing.
“You could have frigging gotten up and left.”
I’m strangely fixated by his nostrils now—they flare even wider, bringing to mind an antagonized bull. And I realize that I never even considered walking out on my former youth group. “They essentially told me that I was…um…well, that I was damned if I do, but not if I don’t. You know, they were referring to whether or not I act on my tendency.” I try to smile but it stretches the skin on my lip painfully, so I give it up.
“That’s their narrow-minded opinion, man.”
“They said celibacy is the way to go—and it’s apparently my only chance at surviving my ‘disorder’ without ending up in hell.”
“Homosexuality is not a freaking disorder. And celibacy is a gift, Del Vecchio.” David hasn’t called me by my last name for a while now, but he’s what I’d call wildly pissed off right now. He even springs up from his chair and starts to pace. “Celibacy is not meant for everyone. God doesn’t want it to be for everyone. And those of us who have not received the gift of celibacy, well, it’s meant that we be married before God.”
A mini Bible lesson—just what I need. The thing is, I want to believe him, but everything has gotten all jumbled up in my brain again and I don’t know if I can. “Whatever.”
“Are you saying you’re buying the bullshit those intolerant assho
les are selling?” He stops pacing and turns to look at me, his face almost as furious as Rinaldo’s had been before he threw the first punch. “Are ya fuckin’ kidding me, dude?”
“I honestly don’t know at this point.” I drop my head into my hands. “I don’t know anything right now.”
He sighs and then he’s by my side again, rubbing my shoulder, and I like it probably way too much. “No worries…I get where you’re coming from, Tony. I’m just pissed-off, is all. We’ll talk about this shit when you’re feeling better, like later this week.”
I look up at David, and his blue eyes are soft and sort of damp, if I’m not imagining it, as they gaze down on me. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Hey, we’re buds. Of course I came to get you.” He blinks a few times, and I know he’s holding back strong emotions. “I’m here for you, dude.”
“That’s what Elizabeth O’Donnell said, ‘Anthony, we’re here for you’, just before Rinaldo Vera beat the crap out of me.”
David’s nostrils flare again, and he looks away.
Dark Clouds And Bright Spots
Upset doesn’t even scratch the surface of my parents’ sentiments at seeing my beaten face. I’ll put it this way: Mom and Dad are sweet and generous and extremely loving, but when you mess with one of their children, they are pussycats no longer. The claws and fangs come out.
Dad picks me up from the Gandy’s house where he officially meets David and Gabby. All I can say about their brief introduction is that Dad is beyond words and doesn’t seem to be in the mood for small talk. Because once Dad gets a good look at me, he is, how to phrase it… he is highly distracted. But thankfully Mrs. Gandy is extremely understanding, and before we leave, my body practically dangling from my father’s arms because he seems to think I’m unable to walk, she tucks her cell phone number into his jacket pocket and insists that he and my mom call her when things have settled down.
Where Dad is beyond words—he remains silent for the entire trip home, with the exception of making me recite the basic facts of the incident—Mom is beside herself. And she finds words. “Oh, my Lord, my baby!”
“Mom, I’m all right,” I protest, knowing it will do little good to keep her calm. She’s already worked up into a major frenzy.
“You are not all right. I’ve seen all right…and this is not all right!” And just like that, she’s crying. “Who did this to you? I mean, I don’t know who would ever hurt you this way. Anthony, you said you were going to the church tonight—the church! Boys don’t get beaten up at church!”
Well, this boy did.
By that point, Dad has pushed me onto one of the barstools at the island in the kitchen and has succeeded in lifting up my shirt. The sound of muffled curses indicates that he has seen the red mark made by Rinaldo’s work boot on my side. “Son, I think we should head over to the ER. You need to be checked out for internal injuries.”
“Dad, I can tell nothing is broken. Remember, I’ve had a broken rib before—when I had pneumonia last year. Nothing’s broken…just bruised, I’d say.” My voice sounds feeble, but it’s not as much from pain as it is from emotional exhaustion. I want to find a big rock to crawl under.
“Then if we’re not going to the hospital, we’re going to the Wedgewood Police Station.” Dad sounds like he means business, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go in that direction either. “Gina, dear, please go get as much ice as you can. We need to put ice on his injuries so they don’t swell up.” It’s already way too late for that but I don’t object.
“Mom, I’ll come with you and make ice after you empty the trays.” Mary, the only one of my sisters who’s still awake, is taking in this entire situation, top to bottom. Her eyes are wide and disturbed, and I experience a renewed surge of guilt at bringing this pain down on my family. “And bro, this isn’t your fault. You got me?” The two of us are mentally connected—she always seems to know what I’m thinking.
I redirect my attention to my father who’s standing in front of me with his hands on his hips, waiting for a decision about whether we’ll be going to the police station or the hospital. “Dad… I’m not sure I want to do that…you know, go to the police about what happened. You know, he only hit me twice and….”
“And kicked you hard enough to break your ribs!” For the third time tonight, a furious male is scrutinizing me. “Well, then we’ll go to the school. I’ll call Principal Craigson. That boy should be suspended, if nothing else.”
“Dad, this didn’t happen on school grounds.”
“True. But it did happen on church grounds….”
A sudden rush of anxiety engulfs me. “No, Dad. We’re not going to Father Joseph about this—everybody from St. Mark’s already hates me enough. I don’t need to go and rat on Rinaldo. That’ll make everything worse.”
My father is probably angrier than I’ve ever seen him. “Dammit, Anthony, it’s not called ratting on him. It’s called reporting an assault. That boy is a danger to society. The next kid who suffers his wrath might be more seriously injured than you were, or worse. How would it help anybody, including Rinaldo, if he killed someone because he couldn’t control his anger?” Dad stops to take a few shallow breaths, and I worry about his heart—he’s all red-faced and panting like he’d been the one assaulted.
“Listen, Dad, he only hit me twice and kicked me once—I’m okay.” Dad’s face turns several shades redder, and I know I need to offer him a compromise. “Okay, we can talk to Father Joseph…but not the police…please.”
Mom comes upstairs with a big bowl of ice she got from the freezer in the basement. She wraps it in dishcloths and applies several small packs to my face. My father presses one to the bruise on my side. At first the cold shocks me, but soon it begins to ease the throbbing of my face and body.
“Gina, a boy from Our Way, Rinaldo Vera, is responsible for Anthony’s injuries. But Anthony would prefer not go to the police, and he has agreed to discuss this situation with Father Joseph.” My father is not pleased—not with the situation or with me. “He understands that this whole thing is out of control.”
Mom is still sniffling, but Dad’s comment is a clear invitation for her to babble. “You said was it was Rinaldo Vera…I know Rinaldo, and his mother, Edie, too. They seem like very nice people. I have no idea what would inspire a boy to do a thing like this… And weren’t you always friends with Rinaldo? You two used to have play dates…well, back before his parents’ divorced.”
I think back and remember that “sweet Rinaldo” had turned into “reclusive Rinaldo” after his parents’ nasty split. But nobody had been affected enough by his withdrawal from the world to ask him if everything was okay in his life—me included. “Mom, I think he planned on just talking to me, but then he lost it.”
“Why on earth would he be concerned with your sexuality? Unless he is interested in you…like that.”
“I don’t think that’s it, Mom.” My head is starting to throb and the bruise on my side is pounding again. “May I have a couple Advil?”
Mom sends Dad a worried glance and he goes to the cupboard to get me a glass of water and pain relievers. Meanwhile, Mary comes back upstairs, studies me for a second, and says, “Hey, Tony. You look like something the cat dragged in… just saying.”
“Mary! Your brother doesn’t need the teasing right now!” Dad uses his sharpest voice, but I smile at her, or at least form the best smile I can with my split lip that refuses to stop oozing blood.
“It’s okay, Dad. Mary’s trying to lighten things up around here. And… I want to lie down.”
“Well, you’ll be sleeping on the living room pull-out sofa tonight with me, son. You hit your head, and even though in the car you said it wasn’t very hard, I want to keep an eye on you tonight.” It appears that being alone isn’t going to be in my immediate future.
“Can I stay home from school tomorrow and Friday? I don’t want anybody to see me like this.” I haven’t yet looked in the mirror to see the damage t
o my face, but Mary and Mom’s horrified expressions every time they look at me tell the whole ugly story. “My friend David can pick up my homework for me.”
Mom and Dad glance at each other. “That’s fine. I guess we’ll say you have a severe headache.” Mom hates to lie, but it isn’t too much of an issue in this case as my head is truly killing me. “Okay, keep the ice on his injuries, Paul, and I’ll make up the pull-out couch.”
And then that overwhelming dreading sensation I’ve become familiar with lately takes hold of my heart and my head. I dread tomorrow because I know I’m going to be one seriously hurting unit, and I dread Sunday because I won’t be going to Mass, and I dread Monday because I’ll have to see the kids who’d confronted me in the intervention last night and they’ll wonder about my beat up face, and I dread sitting down with Father Joseph and Rinaldo to discuss the whole situation.
There are plenty of dreadful dark clouds lurking in my future, but, strangely, there are a few bright spots too. Like my family. I couldn’t have a better family and I know they’ll help me through this. And I look forward to after school tomorrow when David will hopefully come over with my schoolwork.
Before I stretch out on the sofa beside Dad, I send David a late-night text, thanking him for helping me out, and asking him to pick up my schoolwork for me. I figure he’ll respond to me in the morning, so I stick my cell phone on the table beside the couch. As I’m saying my prayers, it dings, indicating that someone has texted me.
I lean over to pick up my phone, and the place on my side where Rinaldo kicked me feels like a knife is stabbing my gut. When I stop cringing from pain, I look and see that the text is from David.
“This is gonna sound cliché, but WTF, it’s true? God doesn’t make mistakes. U & me, we r exactly the way he wants us 2 B. See U after school.”
The Gift Of Celibacy
My mom takes charge of setting up the appointment with Father Joseph. According to her, she spoke briefly with him this morning about what has been going on with the Del Vecchio family—my departure from Our Way and the reasons for it, our family’s absence from St. Mark’s, the intervention that was staged by the Our Way youth group with Mrs. Martine’s approval, and the physical assault by Rinaldo. She tells me that Father Joseph had sounded baffled and was upset about each of the incidents. Since it’s Holy Week next week, Father Joseph suggested that we hold off on the meeting with Rinaldo and his parents until after Easter. Mom is uncomfortable with the long wait, but she still agreed. She did, however, insist on taking all kinds of photos of my injuries, so that, if necessary, she can show Father Joseph the intensity of the beating I suffered at Rinaldo’s hands. The photo session is, in a word, humiliating. But the meeting is set for the Tuesday evening after Easter, and I hope that means we can all put it out of our minds for a while.