Choir Boy

by Unknown Author

  “It’s like dying and being reborn,” the Canon said.

  “It’s like losing your luggage,” Peter said. They went on like that for a while.

  “Road to Emmaus!” Canon Moosehead shouted.

  “Road to Damascus!” Peter shouted back.

  “If Jesus is the answer, I hope he’s multiple choice,” Anna Conventional muttered.

  “Everything happens for a reason,” Peter announced.

  “Yeah, it’s just that some things happen for really stupid reasons,” Berry said. “I mean, I’ve been transformed and reborn and suffered and whacked. But I still haven’t got a clue what I’m doing here or where I’m going and if I think about it for more than two seconds I get so scared I want to throw up.”

  Maura gave Berry a hug. The whole restaurant seemed to watch them. Berry felt bad that he’d torn down the tent revival with his confession. Expressing his non-stop simmering terror hadn’t made him feel better about it. If anything, it was harder than ever to ignore now that it was in the open. He violently hated the Canon and Peter for their easy answers.

  “It’s too bad you’re not Jewish,” Canon Moosehead told Berry.

  “Excuse me,” Anna Conventional said. “Aren’t you like liber Jesus guy?”

  “Sure, sure.” Canon Moosehead cleared his throat. “But I’m the first to admit when other faiths offer advantages, and one of the best things about Judaism is it recognizes the stage of life you’re gong through right now. You could celebrate it by having a Bar Mitzvah or maybe in your case a Bat Mitzvah. You know, celebrate the new person you’re becoming but acknowledge you’re a work in progress.” “Jewish people have the suckiest music,” Berry offered. “I went to a synagogue once and they couldn’t keep a tune if it had a collar and leash.”

  “But maybe there is something we can do,” the Canon said. “For both of you. We’re supposed to baptize some babies tomorrow morning at Eucharist. It’s a horrid ritual. One of them always vomits on my surplice. But maybe we could work you two in. Berry, is there a new name you’d like to be baptized under now that you’re a young woman?” “Still Berry. Like the fruit, I guess.”

  An hour later, Peter and the Canon still sparked. They discussed gay priests and the importance of ceremony in W. B. Yeats and WB dramadies.

  Berry tried to call home. The machine picked up but the outgoing message was blank. All the breath left Berry and he knew in his gut’s heart his mom had followed Marco’s example and disappeared. She was halfway to some other city by now, seeking a life without a kid who didn’t know what he was.

  Berry left a message, including Anna Convention al’s cell phone number, then he found the girls room. He balked only a little at the door to the place where he’d suffered so much lately. He forced himself to sweep the door before him. Then he hunched over the sink, crying without moisture. He washed his face several times and tried to decide if “orphan” rhymed with “dolphin.” All this religious talk only stoked Berry’s dread—you only talked religion outside church when you were in trouble or decorating. Berry saw his own thought patterns circle like drainwater. Always back to the choir and its impossible awe. Dr. Tamarind said the purpose of therapy was to bore you, to help you sicken of your own repetitive thought sequences and obsessions, all the better to discard, edit, renew, accept. Berry realized he’d gorged on his constant thoughts of the choir whenever religion, sex, or self-image came up. Thinking about the choir finally started to bore him. But he had nothing to replace the choir with. He washed his face for the millionth time. He tried to make up a lovely hymn about being orphaned.

  “Oh hey. Your mom called,” Anna Conventional said when Berry returned to the table. “We’re meeting her for dinner at Buffalo Country.”

  Canon Moosehead held forth about the importance of Aramaic scholarship in deciphering the Gospels and the possible existence of a “Q,” or source Gospel. Maura stuck her tongue in his mouth and held it there until he stopped trying to move or talk. Then she brushed his face gently, tongue still in mouth, knees visibly nuzzling his crotch. After a paragraph’s space, she pulled her tongue out. The Canon squinted as if he’d never seen her before. He carefully wiped his mouth with a wad of napkins.

  “He’s a great guy,” Maura said to Berry, “as long as nobody gets him talking shop.” She drew Berry aside. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something. This is totally hypothetical and who knows if it’ll even happen, but . . . Canon Moosehead and I have been talking about maybe tying the knot in the spring or summer, you know how these minister types are, all marry-or-burn.”

  “You really think he’s going to marry you?” Berry said. “I mean, he’s always been really political.”

  “He’s changed. Anyway, so we might tie the knot and I’ll just pretend I’m a virgin.” She giggled. “Anyway, we would be like so totally honored if you’d sing at the wedding if it even happens and now I need to touch wood just for mentioning it. But seriously, it would rule. No choir, just you. You could wear a bridesmaid’s dress or choirboy gear or hockey pads, I don’t care.”

  “Wow,” Berry said. “Wow. I’m like . . . that’s really cool. Thanks.”

  “Don’t tell anybody. I’m totally jumping the gun here. I’m just so stoked at the idea of being a preacher’s wife like Whitney.”

  Everyone piled in Anna Conventional’s SUV and drove from one patch of business district to another. Along the way they noticed a group of a dozen or so people toting signs and candles. A single television crew followed the small crowd, one man with a shouldered camera and another with a boom mike. “Now there are some people with nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon,” Anna Conventional remarked.

  “Wait, slow down,” Canon Moosehead said. “I recognize somebody. That’s Rodney Gretzen. And there’s Anita

  Gartner. And . . . and ... oh my. I recognize all of these people from church or the Downtown Association or both.” The Canon’s eyes pooched.

  Berry spotted Lisa’s mom walking out front in a parka and holding a sign he couldn’t read. Her jaw clenched.

  And there, next to her, marched Lisa herself in a plastic yellow raincoat. Lisa had a candle in one hand. Wax dribbled past its paper holder onto her thumb. She stared at her shoes.

  One of the signs swiveled enough for Berry to read: NO DRAG QUEENS IN OUR CHOIR.

  Berry said something profane.

  “Definitely people with too much Saturday afternoon and not enough imagination,” Anna Conventional said.

  Another sign turned out to say something about queers, and a third quoted an obscure passage from Numbers about clothing the lamb in linen and the fish in diapers or something.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Berry said.

  “Stop the car,” Canon Moosehead said. “I want to talk to them.” He yanked at his seatbelt and reached for the door handle.

  Anna Conventional plunged her foot all the way down onto the gas. “No fucking way. You don’t want to make those asslickers feel more important.” The SUV sped past the protesters.

  “But they’re my parishioners.”

  “You’re dating a transsexual,” Maura pointed out. “You can’t afford to draw attention to your own glass house, hon.”

  Canon Moosehead squirmed.

  “Please just drive, just drive,” Berry prayed. He yanked at Anna Conventional’s shoulder strap.

  “Don’t do that! Going as fast as legal,” Anna Conventional barked. She slapped Berry’s hand and ran a red light. Soon the group shrank to angry, sign-waving flecks.

  Berry hated sports. Buffalo Country had sporting equipment everywhere he looked, a basketball hoop next to the bar, a dartboard in the corner, trophies and pictures on every brick surface. Judy and Mr. Allen sat at a table with a big net across its center. Plates of nachos and wings crowded the net. “Sorry we’re late,” Berry told them. “Got distracted on the way over. ”

  The six o’clock news came on during dinner on the big screen TV behind the basketball hoop. A candlelight vigil at St.
Luke’s was the third story. The camera made the turnout look way larger than the handful of people they’d seen on the street.

  “Everybody saw this,” Canon Moosehead said, swinging a nacho back and forth in front of his face by its tip. “It’ll be in the morning paper too. When they gather tomorrow morning, they’ll have many more people waving bigger signs. This will destroy everything.”

  “Well, there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Mr. Allen said with forced cheer. “I only wish we had CDs to sell already.”

  “Hear the drag queen sing, in living stereo,” Maura said. “Are you insane?” Canon Moosehead reddened. He hit the table, scattering nachos onto every lap. “Of course there’s such a thing as bad publicity. You’ve just seen it, and chances are you’ll see a lot more. This is against all reverence.”

  Peter saw the Canon’s aneurysm waiting to happen and put a hand on his new friend’s shoulder. “Hey, dude. Chill out, like turn the other blind eye before you get a mote in it. God will provide and all that.”

  “Shut up, you fucking moron!” Canon Moosehead brushed Peter’s hand away. “This isn’t some lark. This is serious.”

  “Honey,” Maura said. “Try to relax and think of the big picture. I love it when you get all rise-above-it-all.” She took Canon Moosehead’s hand and kissed it. He snatched his hand away as if it burned.

  “I am seeing the big picture. For the first time in months. Fm seeing the Bell Tower Fund going down in flames. I’m seeing the Downtown Association turning its back on us. And St. Luke’s falling into squalor. All because I neglected my tasks and took comfort with the worst of us.”

  The Canon stood up and stalked toward the door.

  Maura ran after him. “Baby, calm down! I’ve never seen you wig like this!”

  The Canon looked at Maura as if he could barely stand to see her. “Cathedrals don’t run on positive vibrations and happy dancing. This is the end of everything!” He ran out the door.

  Maura stood and gazed at the shrinking corduroy figure as if deciding whether to follow.

  “Don’t,” Anna Conventional said, grabbing Maura’s arm. “Let him go. He needs to be alone.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Maura said. “I comforted him when he was all freaked out, and now he just runs off.”

  “The Bell Tower Fund.” Mr. Allen shook his head and whistled. “It’s okay, Berry. He can’t keep you from singing.” “Is it too late for me to go Unitarian instead?” Peter asked. “Unitarians don’t have bishops,” Anna Conventional said. “This is all my fault,” Berry told his mom, who hadn’t spoken in some time. “All I’ve done is wreck everything.”

  Judy quietly slid the steak knives out of Berry’s reach. She didn’t look at Berry or say anything.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not cutting anything. I’m going to stand up for myself.” All of the chattering in Berry’s head had stopped. The terror was still there, but he could ride it like an elephant. He felt sure of himself for the first time in ages. “If I can’t fix what’s happened, the least I can do is try to bring some beauty out of it. I’ve come too far to let those people shut me out.” Then Berry seized some nachos. He felt ferociously hungry all of a sudden.

  18.

  Judy surveyed the apartment she’d occupied for ten years. Half-full boxes crowded the middle of the room and the walls and furniture looked nakeder than ever. “Most of this junk we don’t need. What’s not all-the-way broken can travel. Marco gave us the car back. We’ll load it up and head out.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.” Berry watched his mom pile. “What’s going on?”

  “Time to move on. Start over. I can’t face this town any more. You’re about to become the new poster boy for the religious scream brigade. Neither of us has a reason to stay. I lost my job, remember?”

  “You still have school.”

  “I’ll transfer.”

  “I have friends. You still have Mr. Allen.” Berry looked at the small pile of kitchen gadgets that had survived Marco’s rage. “I think I still have the choir.”

  “You don’t. Berry, listen for once. It just turned poisonous for you to keep singing there. Mr. Allen is a nice guy, but he’s not my boyfriend or anything. And he’s a fool if he thinks he can still let you sing.”

  Berry didn’t think a few nuts with signs could stop him. “It’s late,” he said. “I have to get up early tomorrow' morning for rehearsal.”

  The night hissed like the coffeemaker Marco had destroyed. The refrigerator ticked. Berry remembered Lisa, wax slowly coating her hand, face bent away from the people around her.

  “I don’t think so.” Judy crossed her arms and stood by her piles. “I want to hit the road tomorrow morning. We drive all day, we can reach my sister’s place by evening. We’ll just abandon most of this junk.”

  Berry heard his mom breathe. Her hands twitched like a hard drinker’s. Her neck swelled like a weightlifter’s arm. Her jaw could barely unsnap enough to talk.

  Berry put his arms around her. “Mom, I know this has been super scary. I’ve put you through a lot and I haven’t always explained. But I don’t think running away is the answer. Things are going to be all right now.”

  “Well, that’s sure helpful. Is there room for twro in your alternate reality?”

  “I should call Mr. Allen. He can talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to Ted. I’ll call him from my sister’s place.”

  “What’s changed? This was always going to be weird. Now it’s going to be weird with signs and candles.”

  “They’ll mobilize at that stupid cathedral and draw so much attention to you that school will be Hell, wherever you go around here. Our only hope was for you to find another school in the area where you could be low-key and people could accept you as a girl. Now you’ve sabotaged that plan. I’m sure whatever new town we move to will have a girls’ choir of some sort.”

  “I can’t run away. I want to stand up before God and my friends and let them see me as I am. I need to rejoin the choir, at least one last time,”

  “They’ll crucify you.”

  Berry coughed up a depthless giggle. His mom glared down at him. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Pack your bag. Girl’s clothes and stuff a girl could wear. We’ll do a Salvation Army run first thing.”

  “Look mom, if you want us to blow town, I guess I can’t prevent it. But just let me go and sing tomorrow morning first, okay? I’ve been waiting a long time to go back. This means a lot to me. I’ve taken a lot of pain for this.”

  Judy sighed. “You’re like your hair. Can’t style it, snarls every comb, and no matter how short I cut it, it grows like dandelions. It’s worse now you’re a girl and we’re going to want to braid or perm it.”

  “Anna Conventional says conditioner is like spanking your hair. A little keeps order. Too much makes it sullen and resentful.”

  “She’s a wise person. How do you find them?”

  “I have good friends. It’s luck or something.”

  “I hope you don’t lose it. Or drive your friends away like Marco did.”

  Thinking of Marco made Berry’s soft palate burn. He still hadn’t ever heard the details of Marco’s downfall, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He was sure he’d hear plenty of evil of his dad in the fugitive days ahead. He no longer feared or wanted that information. Something had changed, Marco’s collapsed life now seemed Marco’s own and not so much a warning to Berry. Berry could end badly, but not in the same way as his dad. “It’s not like Marco’s dead,” Berry said aloud. “He could still turn his life around.”

  “Maybe,” Judy said. Berry kept squeezing her stomach and lower back.

  Berry wanted to talk more, about his dad, the choir, or the sketchy road trip Judy planned. But he felt too exhausted. His thoughts as he fell asleep in his room for maybe the last time were about God, an entity he’d only thought about in squalls before he’d met the born-again Bishop Bacchus. It seemed unfair for a spiritual experience to
be derailed by candle maniacs who hated Berry for something he barely represented. Berry fell asleep before that thought could loop itself.

  “The parents’ council saw it on television. They called around and got the ex-gays to show. The ex-gays got the Not Adam and Steve people—or whatever they’re called,” said Mr. Allen. “I doubt any of these people are Episcopalian. It’s just your bad luck nobody’s tried to perform a gay marriage or ordain a gay minister lately.”

  “I’m not gay,” Berry said. “Although, I think I like girls and if I become one that would make me a lesbian according to Maura. Do you think they’d leave me alone if I said I’d only date boys from now on?”

  Mr. Allen shook his head. He, Judy, and Berry sat in the pizza place across from the cathedral, the same one where Teddy had thrashed Berry the week before. Mr. Allen and Judy drank rank-smelling coffee. Berry had a smoothie. The pizza place served donuts for breakfast, but they looked greasy and dry. The three of them stared out the window at the mob—it really was a mob—outside the cathedral.

  “I just don’t believe it,” Judy said. “I mean, I expected nuts, but this is insane.” She looked pale and lifeless. She’d been up packing nearly all night. She didn’t look to Berry like someone who should drive all day. She wore a too-bright floral dress to compensate for her pale face. “Something pushed their buttons,” Berry said.

  “It’s the way you threaten to get mud all over their precious pure image,” Mr. Allen said. He wore a linen suit and the workaday glasses. “It’s like learning that angels like to do it with cherubs.” He touched Judy’s hand. She pulled hers away.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting him sing in spite of all this,” Judy said. “It’s like you don’t care about anything but the choir sounding good.”

  The hastily prepared signs said things like aids cures GAY choirboys and choirboys, not queerboys.

  “It’s not that,” Mr. Allen said, “I can’t let these hooligans tell me how to run my choir—it’s bad enough when the diocese rides me for having anthems in Latin.” He looked out the window. “You don’t have to skip town over this, it’ll blow over.”