Hold My Hand

by Michael Barakiva

  “You know what, I think we’ll be good here.” Alek stopped them a few rows from the back, optimal for the clean getaway Alek wanted to make the moment the service ended and a comfortable six rows back from where his parents sat with Nik.

  The hundreds of candles lit at the front of the altar didn’t provide the only lighting in the sanctuary, but the glow made everything look otherworldly, even mystical, as the flames danced to their own silent music.

  “This place—it’s so intense.” Ethan arched his neck up to admire the arcane detail of the vaulted ceilings above them. Having someone who’d never had been there before allowed Alek to see the church anew. The Armenians had gone all out this season, decorating the sanctuary with Christmas trees (bedazzled with twinkling lights, tinsel, a rainbow of ornaments, and sparkling stars on top), wreaths crowned with big red bows, and a sea of poinsettias spilling out from the altar.

  “My mom once said that the Orthodox Church makes the Catholics look Protestant.” Alek nodded.

  “And did you check out Reverend Father’s cowl?” Ethan asked.

  “I know—very Doctor Strange.”

  Across the aisle, even farther up than his parents, Alek spotted Arno, sitting with his parents and five younger siblings. The memory of their kiss, in this very room, flooded Alek’s senses. And even though he and Ethan hadn’t been together then and weren’t together now, he still felt a shade of guilt, as if he’d cheated.

  Ethan, attuned, followed Alek’s gaze. “Who’s that?”

  “Arno.”

  “The kid from Saturday school?” Ethan asked.

  “Yup.”

  Ethan nodded, watching, listening, clocking.

  The last audience members took their seats in the pews, which were almost entirely full by now, as the reverend father started speaking. He stood on the floor, between the pews and the stage, amid the sea of red.

  It was nice to see the reverend father speaking to the congregation from the floor, rather than from the altar, where he usually spoke. In spite of the black cowl, he spoke with a casualness about the history of the church and the traditions of Christmas that was absent from all of his more formal Sunday services.

  “For a long time, many Armenians would fast for up to three days before Christmas!” the reverend father told the congregation.

  “The only time Armenians have ever abstained from food,” Alek deadpanned under his breath, forcing Ethan to struggle to keep a straight face.

  “But really,” the reverend father continued, “it’s important to remember that the birth and baptism of Jesus Christ is a time to remember forgiveness. Forgiveness is Christianity’s major philosophical contribution to the dialogue of the world. We take it for granted now, but the notion that you should love your enemy was a new thought at the time of Jesus’s teachings. And it’s all based in God’s love for us—for he did not send his son into the world to condemn it, but rather to save it. In love.” He paused, like he was going to say something else, but then changed his mind. “But you’ll get enough of that during my sermon next Sunday!”

  All the little kids, under the supervision of Mrs. Stepanian, marched out onstage and began singing a medley of Christmas carols, interspersed with a few Armenian classics.

  “This is so surreal.” Ethan looked on, fascinated, as if he were observing an alien species.

  “What—you’ve never heard of that holiday classic, ‘Kef Kef’?” Alek asked, as the children segued out of the Armenian song and into “Deck the Halls.”

  “I can say, with full confidence, that I have never heard of ‘Kef Kef.’” Ethan slouched in his pew, summoning the spirit of disaffected skater bad boy, even in his button-down shirt, tie, and jacket. “What’re they singing now?”

  “‘Gaghant Baba’—another standard.” Alek bopped along. “It’s about Santa Claus.”

  “He knows when you’ve been bad or good?” Ethan asked.

  “Something like that.”

  The choir finally sat down and the rest of the service continued, the reverend father speaking in Armenian that the congregation pretended it could understand perfectly, broken up with the adult choir singing songs equally antiquated and Armenian.

  After the last choir song, the reverend father introduced Nik. “Every Christmas Eve service, it is my pride to introduce a young member of the congregation, who shares his or her essay, ‘What Being Armenian Means to Me.’ This year, Andranik Khederian was chosen.”

  Nik, flush with false humility and true pride, walked up to the lectern and launched into his beautifully written, totally predictable essay about the wrongs committed against the Armenian people, the unacknowledged genocide in Turkey during World War I, the diaspora that followed, and the recently observed hundred-year anniversary of those events.

  “Read it to me sometime,” Ethan whispered.

  “What?” Alek whispered back.

  “Tonight—or whenever—I want you to read your paper to me,” Ethan said. “I’d like to hear it.”

  Alek gently placed his hand on Ethan’s and gave it the slightest of squeezes.

  Nik continued his pontification as Alek’s mind wandered. He couldn’t have predicted that he’d be sitting here in church, with Ethan. Being next to Ethan made everything feel okay. Even now. Even here, with the stained-glass windows that during the day would be glowing, the baroque columns, the candles, the poinsettias.

  His thoughts had drifted so far from Nik’s speech that he needed Ethan’s gentle smack on his arm to bring him back to reality, just in time to hear his brother say, “And yet, for all we talk about acceptance and a God who loves us unconditionally, when I think of being Armenian, I can’t help but think of everyone who the church excludes. And by attending church, do we condone this exclusion?”

  Ethan leaned in, allowing Alek to inhale that sandalwood- sweat fragrance that was profoundly him. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  Alek shook his head vigorously and honestly. He was as startled as everyone else when he heard those words coming out of Nik’s mouth. But unlike everyone else, he knew what was going to be said next. Because he had written it.

  “And why do we allow this from the church when we’d never get on a segregated bus or work for a company that explicitly and unapologetically prevented women from having the same jobs as men?” It was funny to hear his words coming out of Nik’s mouth. “When I think of being Armenian, and how proud it makes me, I can’t help but think how much prouder I’d be if the church were more inclusive.”

  The congregation shifted uneasily. In previous years, the most controversial topic that had been discussed in the “What Being Armenian Means to Me” speech had been whether the words dolma and sarma were interchangeable when discussing stuffed vegetables.

  “What if rather than staying behind, waiting for change to happen, the church led the way? We are a people who have been defined by the discrimination that has been committed against us.” Nik had found his voice, and the microphone carried it strongly through the chapel. “How do we justify, then, our own discrimination?”

  The reverend father rose and strode down the center aisle, apparently having decided this had gone on long enough. “Okay, thank you, Nik, very much, and merry Christmas.” He gestured for Nik to resume his seat, a strained smile stretched across his face.

  Nik’s courage faltered, but he didn’t step down. “But I’m not done yet.”

  “I think you’ve run a few minutes over time; besides, I’m not sure that the congregation is entirely interested in hearing the rest of your speech.”

  In spite of the reverend father’s broad smile, it became clear to everyone in the chapel that they were witnessing an altercation. The room hung in delicate balance, like a car seesawing on a cliff, figuring out whether it would level itself to safety or plummet to certain death.

  “I’m interested.” A small voice rang through the sanctuary, determining the room’s fate. Arno seemed more surprised than his parents, Alek, and even the
reverend father when he stood up and spoke. “I’d like to hear the rest. And I’m a member of this congregation, aren’t I?”

  “We’d like to, also.” Alek couldn’t believe it when his father stood up next.

  “We’ve been coming here for twenty years.” Alek’s mother was in her professional mode: cool, collected, and confident. “We’ve always been incredibly proud of both our sons, Reverend Father, and we’d love to hear the rest. And I bet we’re not the only ones here who feel that way.”

  Nik’s voice boomed through the microphone at the podium. “Alek, do you want to come up here and finish this? They’re your words, after all.”

  “Go!” Ethan whispered, nearly shoving him out of the pew and into the aisle.

  Alek tried to gather whatever dignity he could as he scrambled down the large center aisle, through the mostly confused congregation. Standing next to his brother, he spoke into the microphone, spoke the words that had got him kicked out of Saturday school, the words he never thought he’d be able to say to this congregation in this house of worship.

  “When I think of what inspires me most about the teachings of Jesus Christ, it is the message of love and forgiveness that he shared. He was born into a cruel world—a world with dictators and profound economic inequality. And whether or not you believe in heaven or hell, he believed that our basic responsibility was to love, to reach out, to treat everyone the same. It was radical in its time. But really, when you think about it, it’s pretty radical right now. That’s all I wanted to say. Love thy neighbor and thy enemy. And merry Christmas, everyone. Merry, merry Christmas.”

  24

  Alek wished that, like at the end of a movie, the entire congregation had leaped to its feet and applauded for him thunderously. He wished that the reverend father had come over, heartily shaken his hand, and told him that what happened here tonight had forced him to reexamine his perspective.

  But those aren’t the kinds of things that happen in life.

  Some clapping greeted the end of Alek’s speech from a few members of the congregation. Mostly the younger ones, Alek noted, but some from other generations, including Mr. and Mrs. Papazian, unlikely enough. Arno’s parents notedly did not clap, glowering at their son, who sat, back straight, ignoring everyone but Alek.

  The rest of the congregation just sat, awkward and uncomfortable, until Mrs. Atamian finally launched into the opening chords of “Away in a Manger” on the booming organ. Everybody sang, not just the children, using the music to recover.

  The reverend father, to his credit, didn’t kick anyone out of the church. He sang along with his wife, the children, the congregation, and even Ethan, as Alek and Nik made their way back to the pews.

  The song ended and it was time to go. There was nothing left for Alek at the church. And as he gathered his stuff and turned to leave, he knew it would be the last time he’d ever be in this building, the place he’d been coming every week for as long as he could remember.

  As a kid, going to church had felt like a chore, and he’d fantasized about being old enough to sleep in on the weekend. But knowing he’d never step back in here didn’t fill Alek with elation. Instead, he just felt sadness, like he was saying goodbye to a friend he’d outgrown.

  Before he left, however, there was one last thing that he needed to do.

  “I’ll meet you outside, okay?” he whispered to Ethan.

  Most of the congregation was already milling around. It would be an interesting night, Alek speculated, as parents and their children tried to make sense of what had happened. At least, Alek thought, they’d be talking. Hopefully, dialogue would happen, and that in itself would be a good thing, he thought.

  “You were amazing, Arno.” Although his parents hovered by the Sanctuary exit with the other five children, Arno had lingered.

  “I didn’t do anything—you and Nik—that was amazing!”

  “That moment—when everything hung in the balance—that was all you, man. You did that!” Alek said.

  Arno fairly beamed, in spite of the stone-cold, stoic faces of his parents, who were trying to get Arno’s attention. Arno pointedly ignored them. “Did you and Nik plan that?”

  “One hundred percent no,” Alek admitted. “I don’t even know how he got my paper!”

  “When I stood up and said I wanted to hear the rest of Nik’s speech? I did it for you, you know.” Arno pulled Alek into the alcove off the main room, where they’d spent so much time alone and together. “For you.”

  “I know, Arno.” Alek didn’t lean in. But he didn’t move back, either. “I need to tell you…”

  Alek stumbled for a second. He hadn’t seen Arno since they’d kissed four days ago, on New Year’s Day, in this very room. The way Arno was looking at him, with his open face, so full of yearning, was so much like the way he imagined he looked at Ethan when they’d first met all those months ago. As much as he wanted to believe that the kiss with Arno had meant the same thing for both of them—a dalliance, a delight, a wonderful unexpected thing without any strings—Alek knew that wasn’t the case.

  He was about to say all those things when he felt Arno’s gaze shift from Alek to behind him. And the look on Arno’s crestfallen face told him exactly whose presence that was.

  “Hey—the parking lot is stupid bottlenecked. Your folks told me to tell you that they’ll pick us up in the back.” Ethan tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  “Thanks.” Then Alek took a step back from Arno. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong. And yet still, Ethan’s presence changed things.

  “You’re Arno, right?” Ethan said.

  Arno, to his credit, didn’t look away or even flinch. “Yes, I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ethan.” Arno held out his hand and shook Ethan’s, like a good young Armenian who’d been brought up right.

  Ethan regarded him for a moment. “You rocked, standing up back there.” Ethan tried to finger-snap him, but Arno, unused to the gesture, couldn’t quite pull it off.

  “I’ll see you back at the car, Alek, okay?” Ethan slipped away, but his presence had changed things.

  Arno’s gaze followed Ethan’s departing figure; then he turned back to Alek, questioning.

  “It’s not…” Alek tried, but didn’t know how to finish.

  “It’s okay,” Arno said simply, cutting him off. He did his best to smile, looking from Alek to departing Ethan and back to Alek. “Not everyone gets the happy ending.”

  Alek pulled Arno into an embrace and held him for a few precious minutes, pulling away at just the right time. Or maybe a moment later.

  * * *

  “Mom, Dad, seriously, you guys are the best.” Alek sat sandwiched between his brother and Ethan in the back seat of their car. Even though he’d been invited to drive, Nik had declined the offer. Apparently, he had had enough excitement for one night.

  “Did you see the look on the reverend father’s face when we stood up?” Alek’s mom was giddier than Alek or Ethan or Nik had been.

  “And then when people clapped?” his father piped in, driving five miles above the speed limit.

  “What I want to know is, how did you get a copy of my essay?” Alek asked Nik.

  “The way you talked about it on New Year’s Eve made me curious. So I just picked up the copy you gave Mom and Dad when they were done with it.”

  “Nik, Mr. and Mrs. K—I’ll never wonder where Alek gets his stuff from. It must run in the family.”

  The five spent the rest of the ride home recounting their favorite moments of the night.

  “You know I’m not going back to church, right?” Alek said.

  “Neither are we.” Alek could hear the sadness in his father’s voice.

  “Really?”

  “We’re going to have religion in our lives,” his father said. “I’m still a proud Christian. So we’re just going to find another place to go. A place—how did you say it—more inclusive.”

  Alek hoped against hope. “And maybe a little closer, too
?”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” his mother told him.

  “I’ve heard about an Armenian Episcopalian church in North Jersey that sounds promising,” his father said.

  “Promising in what way?”

  “Women can be deacons in the church; they’re incredibly progressive about gay rights and abortion.”

  “And how far away?”

  “Two hours. Each way.”

  Alek groaned. Apparently, it was impossible to have your baklava and eat it, too.

  When they exited Route 33, back on the local roads of South Windsor, Ethan spoke up.

  “Alek, do you want to come over?”

  “On a school night?” his mother asked.

  “I finished all my homework, and I won’t be long, okay?” Alek leaned forward, into the front of the car, so his parents could see him. “Besides, it’s been a hell of a month.”

  His parents considered. “Okay,” his father said. “We trust you know what you’re doing.”

  “As long as you’re home in an hour, of course,” his mother finished.

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Ethan’s room surprised him yet again.

  “When did you…” Instead of the blank walls Alek had been expecting, he was greeted by photos of him and Ethan, woven into a collage of all the memorabilia of their relationship: the pin from their first trip to New York, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Brochures from the Intrepid, receipts from their Citi Bikes, menus from the restaurants where they’d eaten. The lyrics from Rufus Wainwright songs, juxtaposed with lyrics from Brandy Clark. The skyline of New York painted—or was it drawn?—on an entire wall. The collage spread over all the walls in Ethan’s room, even the ceiling, enveloping them. Ethan had transformed his room into a three-dimensional living monument to their relationship.

  “When you asked me what I wanted to do in my life, it got me thinking. This is what I want to do. I want to make things like this. I want to make big weird things that bring people joy. And you, most of all.”