God Says No

by James Hannaham

  “That’s blasphemous, Annie!” I shouted.

  “Jesus is a tricky guy,” Annie replied. “He talks in riddles and teaches people by letting them make mistakes. He doesn’t want you to take Him at face value, because you won’t have your own epiphany about what He means. When He talks about mustard seeds, he doesn’t mean mustard seeds!”

  “Sure He does,” I said. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Think about it, Gary!”

  Underneath all our yelling, I thought I noticed that we got back little sparks of what we had when we first met. Either that or I hoped for the sparks more than they existed. She opened up and told me more about how her life had changed. She and a friend had started the restaurant and named it Pago Pago. He cooked the food and she managed the place. They had done real well for themselves. Eventually she found a way of paying for my time at Resurrection using her health insurance plan.

  A whole bunch of telephone dustups later, Annie found a special promotion on a plane ticket and she and Cheryl came to visit for a weekend after the waiting period ended. We toured the grounds together, I introduced her to Bill and Gay and the guys and took her to my job. Cheryl wanted to play putt-putt golf at the Big River Amusement Center next door to the hotel, so we spent part of Saturday afternoon there. Annie and I held hands and made nice like loving parents, partly to show our child how together we were and also to prove it to ourselves. Cheryl did better than we did at putt-putt and scooted to the giant willow tree while we got stuck at the hole with the riverboat on top. “It’s hard to believe she was a mistake,” Annie sighed, watching Cheryl run ahead, her young limbs whipping out in all directions.

  “Do you really think of her as a mistake?”

  “No, not anymore.”

  “Nothing is a mistake,” I said. “The Lord-”

  “Oh, plenty of things are mistakes,” Annie interrupted, lowering her chin at me, “but some mistakes are like seeds, I guess, and they grow into-what’s the opposite of a mistake?”

  “A thing on purpose?”

  “Yeah, purposes.”

  Many of Dr. Soffione’s treatments focused on repairing our relationships with our fathers. So on the Friday before Easter, Bill told each of us to talk to our fathers. During the conversations, we would confront them about one of the issues that contributed to our same-sex attractions. Fortunately the guys didn’t have to tell their dads about their SSAs if they didn’t know about them. We were to write down everything we said, and all of their responses, too. My blood ran cold, knowing my father had passed and I couldn’t do that. Across the room I saw a raincloud of worry cross Nicky’s face. He hadn’t spoken to his father since he left home, and didn’t know how to contact him.

  I raised my hand. “What if your father has passed, or you don’t have his contact information?” A couple of other guys said they had wanted to ask the same question.

  “Good point, Gary. Why don’t those of you who can’t speak directly to your dads write down a page or two of how you think the confrontation part of the conversation would go?”

  None of us liked the idea for the assignment, but the more we complained about it to Bill, the better an idea he thought it was. In the end, he demanded that we do it. By the end of the long discussion, I was glad that I would get to create the conversation all by myself, even though it meant going back into difficult emotional territory. I still had fresh wounds having to do with my father’s death, which I didn’t want to admit had hurt me.

  That night I took a break from working on the autobiography and opened a new WordPerfect document and wrote:

  Hi, Daddy.

  Address me with respect.

  Hello, Sir.

  That’s more like it. Now what do you think you have to say to me?

  Well, it’s going to be Father’s Day soon, and I thought I’d wish you a happy one.

  Every day is this father’s day. Do you think you don’t have to talk to me on other days?

  No, of course not. I’ve talked to you on other days. This is just a special day. Well, I don’t believe in anybody else’s special days.

  Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.

  I don’t care about Father’s Day.

  So are you and Mama doing something special? No. Are you deaf or just stupid?

  I’m not stupid or deaf, Daddy. You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up with you for a long time, but I haven’t had the courage.

  Have you gone fool? What’s this mumbo jumbo you yapping about, boy? It has to do with how severely you disciplined me as a child. I don’t think it was appropriate.

  What was appropriate was that you needed to get your ass beat because you were a punk. You got some nerve, going to tell me how to raise you. Too late now anywise.

  But your punishments came between us and made me feel like I could never be close to you. They caused me to detach from you in a way that has turned out to be unhealthy and threatens to ruin my life.

  Somebody brainwashed you, son. Your life is your own damn responsibility. You just blame your mama and me because you’re weak. Always have been. Fat little weakling. Blame somebody else, that’s Gary. Gary can’t do nothing wrong, must have been his daddy screwed him up. Much as I hate the other one for what he did, and may he burn in Hell for it, I can’t say he didn’t have balls.

  Joe nearly killed you, Daddy. How can you-

  See, that’s what you don’t understand about being a man. That’s a sissy mentality. Sissy doesn’t know that every man got to kill his daddy someway. That one damn near done it for sure. But you were always too afraid of me to do anything near like what the other one did.

  Daddy, stop! Don’t say that!

  ‘Cause as bad an apple as he turned into, he did something about it. He knew I’d have to give him respect for turning the tables. You don’t beg anybody for respect, Gary. That’s a contradiction in terms. You go out and you stick respect in the gut like a hog and drag it home still wriggling and bleeding and fighting you off with its guts spilling out. I do respect that other one. I do.

  I hate you. I hate hate hate hate you.

  You two weren’t no different one from the other. You were raised in the same house. But see, I bet the other one don’t have the same psychology brain problem you’re talking about here, do he? He never had a problem being a real man.

  Weeping, I stopped there and rewrote the entire dialogue to make my father more accepting before I presented it to Bill and the others in Masculinity Repair. I printed out a copy of the first one and hid it in the rapidly rising stack of pages of my autobiography. Re-reading it later, it had the eerie feeling of a seance, like I’d really contacted my father beyond the grave and taken down every word he said.

  As I untangled my own history, I found that helping other men through their difficulties with same-sex desires came naturally to me. I enjoyed it a great deal, probably because it kept me from focusing on my own flaws. Keith had impressed me with his positive attitude, so I asked him to be my prayer partner. If he had a tough day fighting back the demons, he would come by my room that night. I’d buy us Cherry Cokes from the vending machine in the basement and we’d read from the Bible. Sometimes others joined us and it became a regular pajama party, though I would never have called it that then. Meanwhile, Bill leaned so heavily on my assistance during Masculinity Repair and other sessions that some visitors once mistook me for a staff member.

  I’d begun to know myself in a new way. Every day the guys told me they loved me and appreciated everything I did for Resurrection. But I still didn’t give myself credit for the positive impression I had made on everybody. That is, until Bill and Gay took me aside at the end of the ninth month.

  We met in Bill’s office, behind the front office. It was like a different universe in there. The cherrywood walls and gray carpet gave everything that happened in there a serious tone, like a hearing in Congress or a lawsuit. Even the garbage cans were made of polished brass. But when Gay sat down in the chair
next to Bill’s, facing me, her smile practically burst out of her face. I saw it and couldn’t help smiling, too. Why was she smiling so much?

  Bill leaned back in his chair and twirled a ballpoint pen over his thumb. In the past few weeks, I’d seen how much work he did, and my sympathy for him had grown a whole lot. Now when I looked at his connected eyebrows, I didn’t see a frown. Instead I saw a fan, spreading out across his face with all the love he had for his job and the clients at Resurrection underneath his businesslike attitude.

  “So, Gary, how are you feeling about your stay here? You know that you’ve made a lot of progress, am I right?” The terrific thing about Dr. Soffione’s method was that it allowed you to evaluate your healing process with a special diary and a chart, in addition to the United States one on the wall. Everybody kept their charts in their notebooks and the notebooks always nearby, under their arms during the day and under their pillows at night. “Are you done with your autobiography?” he kidded.

  “I’ve got quite a way to go, sir,” I told him.

  “But your enthusiasm is abundant. And terrific. Gay and I have been discussing you. We were wondering if once your year is up, you’d consider staying on.”

  “I thought y’all said I’ve made great progress.”

  Gay threw her head back and belly-laughed. “Gary, you are such a goofball! Bill meant to ask if you’d like to help the clinic with a certain project.”

  “Like a job?”

  Resurrection’s most famous graduate was Alec Braverman, who had written a popular book called Jesus Loves Homosexuals. It provided a hip, youthful guide to the dangers of the gay lifestyle, and a new approach to loving the sinner but hating the sin. Everybody there spoke of Alec with admiration, and many dog-eared copies of his book sat on tables in the library. He was very handsome, too, so he had a busy schedule of appearances on TV and at conservative and religious fund-raisers, but he still took the time to visit the center. Once, he gave us a pep talk using the book of Job as his starting point. Visions of myself as Alec, spreading the gospel of ex-gayness on TV, popped up in my head. I couldn’t be like him, I thought. Could I?

  Gay nodded and Bill put down his pencil. He sat up in his chair to emphasize the seriousness of the offer. “But the larger picture is, Gary, we’re looking to start a new chapter in Atlanta. If you enjoy working here, perhaps you’d like to help us with that, since you’re based there.”

  The air left my lungs. I supposed they didn’t remember that I’d run away to Atlanta, and I’d have a lot of triggers to face there. Plus, Annie and I had assumed that I’d head back to Orlando after the program, even though we hadn’t made definite plans. But maybe this Atlanta chapter could serve as a transition between the program and real life. Maybe Annie would agree to move there with me once I had overcome my past. Almost without thinking, I accepted Bill and Gay’s offer. I knew that I had to accept it now and iron out the details later. I didn’t want them to offer it to anybody else.

  Naturally, they were delighted. “I’m so glad you’re interested, Gary!” Gay shouted. “This is going to be terrific!”

  Bill turned to Gay. “If he’s really serious about coming on board, he should meet Charlie, shouldn’t he?”

  “You haven’t met Charlie yet, have you? Ohmigosh. You should definitely meet Charlie.”

  Dr. Soffione had been out of town a lot. For most of my year there, in fact. Among his recent triumphs, he’d appeared on The 700 Club and provided a couple of quotes for a Time magazine article, speaking out against gay adoptions and gay teachers. I had seen him just once, from pretty far off, in the larger office behind Bill’s, when I’d come to ask for a paper clip. His head, full of straight white hair, was focused tightly on something he was writing, so he didn’t look up.

  Dr. Soffione’s name got mentioned a lot around the center in admiring, hushed tones, mostly by Bill and Gay. They didn’t really want us to read his book during our treatment because it could interfere with our recovery. We couldn’t have found it easily, because it had been put out by a small press that specialized in therapeutic types of books. Also, we all saw the principles of Stand Up Straight in practice every day, so nobody really felt the need to read the book.

  Of course, Bill and Gay had timed their proposal so that Dr. Soffione would be sitting in the large office behind the smaller one where Bill and Gay and a couple of helpers did all of the center’s paperwork and mailings. During our whole meeting I had heard somebody back there, pecking at an electric typewriter. I could’ve figured it was Dr. Soffione, but I didn’t want to scare myself by knowing that. Bill stood up and lightly knocked on his door, although it was already partially open. “Charlie? Do you have a minute?”

  The typing stopped, and in a moment, a short, white-haired gentleman came to the door. Dr. Soffione made smacking noises on a lozenge. The small amount I’d seen of him-a picture from the dust jacket of Stand Up Straight lying on Gay’s desk-made me expect a strong, solid man. Instead, he came off as wispy and scattered, like somebody thinking about a whole mess of things and trying to make them into a conspiracy. Bill introduced me to him as the guy who would be opening the Atlanta chapter, and I shook his hand.

  “Thank you for your wonderful program!” I blurted out. I wrapped my other hand around his and, happily, found the tendons hard and masculine.

  “I’m glad it’s been a help to you.” He smiled and nodded, almost like a king bowing. We said a few more words, then he excused himself and closed the door. From behind the door, the tap-tap-tap of the typewriter started again.

  “He’s working on a new book,” Bill said reverently. “Straight Ahead. It’s a guide that counsels ex-gay men and women in ways to maintain and optimize the practices he outlined in the first book. A little lighter, a little more anecdotal, more of a self-help book than the psychiatric focus of the first one.”

  “It’s going to be terrific,” Gay chimed in. “It is terrific. I can hear it in there every day, already being terrific.”

  I wanted to admire Dr. Soffione even more after having met him. It occurred to me that he might have his own story. “Did he used to be gay?” I asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Bill asked.

  “Or... or somebody in his family maybe?”

  Gay touched Bill’s wrist. “What Bill’s trying to say, I think, is that it isn’t necessary for someone to have been a homosexual in order to establish his credibility as an expert in psychology. Dr. Soffione has a master’s and a PhD, and he’s published countless articles and done tons of studies.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t doubting him. I just thought it would be nice if he had struggled with it himself and could sort of be on our side about it a little.”

  “He is on our side,” Bill replied. “You don’t know the man, so I can see why you might not understand that yet. But no one in the world is more on our side than Dr. Charles Soffione.”

  “Dr. Soffione is completely on our side,” Gay reassured me. “When you get to know him, you’ll understand.” Her tone reminded me of the way Erica talked about Rex. Dr. Soffione’s tapping became furious for a moment and then slowed down. “So, let’s talk about your responsibilities.” I sat up in my chair. Bill handed me a legal pad and a pen.

  The news about my staying on and helping at Resurrection didn’t make Annie happy. She wanted her child to have a father and to have her husband back sooner rather than later, she said. Plus, she didn’t feel she could move to Atlanta. She brought up the d-word again, and I begged her not to leave me, so that I could prove to her how much I had changed. Eventually she agreed, and even got excited about moving the restaurant or opening a new branch.

  That night, I lay down on my bed and spent some time searching the Bible for guidance. Keith knocked on the open door pretty soon after that. Keith had had a difficult day struggling with his attraction to a coworker. I had told everybody about Hank, so I gave him some tips I used to use for that situation. As I talked, I found myself reliving my lus
t for Hank in a way that made me uncomfortable. I saw my enthusiasm reflected in Keith’s eyes. It was like he had come in and dumped his sins on me like a scapegoat. But that wasn’t his fault.

  When Keith got up to go, he thanked me and I gave him a hug. Keith let the hug extend past the acceptable limit. “Special hug,” he said as the embrace went into overtime. After about fifteen seconds, I shifted my body to let him know I wanted to stop, but he didn’t stop. He lay his head against my chest, maybe listening to my heartbeat, and hugged harder. I told myself the back-slapping made it a masculine hug. But then he stopped slapping. He closed his eyes and made a low, sad hummmg norse.

  Keith dropped his arms and took a step back. He tucked his plaid shirt into his khakis and stared at me intensely above his glasses, like he would cry next. “It was just a hug,” he muttered.

  I lay awake that night thinking about the hug. Keith and I would have to talk about it the next day in Group. The hug hadn’t been a sexual hug. Did that mean we hadn’t broken the rules? At what moment did it become inappropriate? I could have pushed him away, but I didn’t. I hadn’t noticed a strong attraction to Keith before, but the possibility had now opened up in my mind and I couldn’t help drawing it out.

  Dr. Soffione’s treatment didn’t offer a 100 percent cure. From the way Bill and Gay spoke about it, nobody could. Did Christ really want that for us? Would we have to spend the rest of our lives counting the seconds to make sure our hugs didn’t go into overtime?