by Michael Nava
“Yes,” I said.
After a few minutes, he turned his back to me and curled against my body. I slipped one arm beneath his neck and the other across his chest. I pulled him tight, kissed his neck, and we fell asleep.
••••
A series of beeps sounded from our pile of clothes on the floor. I knew he carried a pager in case the restaurant called because someone had flaked on their shift. I carried one for business.
“Is that your pager or mine?”
Before he could answer, another pager beeped.
“It sounds like they’re both going off.”
He climbed out of bed, poked through his clothes for his pager, pulled it out and said, “This isn’t the restaurant. I don’t recognize the number.”
I was looking at my own pager. I didn’t recognize the number either, but that wasn’t unusual— it could have been a client calling from any number of police stations.
“You take the phone in the kitchen. I’ll use the line in Larry’s office.”
A few minutes later, we met back up in the bedroom.
“That was Laura Acosta,” I said. “It was about that demo at Grauman’s. She and several other QUEER people were arrested—”
“And they want you to come and get them out of jail,” he said. “I know. My call was from Theo. He’s one of the ones who were arrested.” He sighed. “You can drop me off at my car on your way to the jail.” After a moment, he asked, “Are you disappointed we didn’t do anything?”
“We slept together.”
“You know what I mean.”
“It was better than any sex I’ve ever had.”
He laughed. “You said you would never lie to me.”
I kissed his forehead. “I’m not.”
SEVEN
At the top of the sheet of the first page of his sermon was the title: Salvation Not Tolerance. He silently reread the opening paragraph: “We hear so much about tolerance these days, don’t we? How we must tolerate those we disagree with and even those whose lifestyles are plainly unbiblical. We’re told these people have a right to use their bodies any way they see fit, and we must respect their right and tolerate them. But what does the Bible say about this tolerance? Where is the verse that commands Christians to accept the presence of sin in their community? Where did Jesus, who healed the lepers, tell us we must accept their right to contract leprosy and spread it among the innocent? Nowhere! That verse, that teaching, isn’t in the Gospel! When it comes to sin, the Bible is crystal clear— the sinner must repent and be saved or condemn himself to the everlasting torments of Hell. You may be asking yourselves who and what are you talking about, Pastor? You know who I am talking about. The men who lie with men, the women who give their bodies up to unnatural uses. The so-called gay and lesbian community.”
The sermon was not his idea. The Yes on 54 committee had approached every clergyman who had signed the open letter endorsing the measure and had asked them to preach on the issue on the same Sunday. The political consultant explained in a conference call to the signatories, “We want a clear and ringing statement of support from a hundred pulpits on the same day. A call to arms that cannot be ignored by anyone calling himself a Christian.” A committee of ministers had written the text that lay on the podium before him— not his words, but theirs.
He’d been trapped. There was no acceptable excuse or equivocation. He’d signed the letter and the church had made a substantial contribution to the campaign. At the time he had assumed nothing more would be asked of him. As the measure continued to lose ground in the opinion polls, however, the pressure on the clergy to speak out more forcefully had grown, culminating at last in what the campaign was calling the Day of Reckoning.
He felt the impatience rising like a mist from the congregation as he stood silent at the pulpit. Behind him on the stage were the Overseers. Metzger’s eyes bored into the back of his head. Metzger, the most vociferous proponent of the measure, who had helped organize the statewide event. The coughs and throat clearings, low at first, now became an audible chorus of anxiety joined by whispers of concern.
He raised his head from the text and looked out at his congregation. Almost a thousand souls, most of them white and well-dressed, who had never known hunger or homelessness or the desperation of finding a way to get from one day to the next. Who had never had to look over their shoulders in fear of the fist or the rock or the epithet hurled in hatred with the force of law or custom or scripture. God’s Chosen. Ordinary people who, for the first time in human history, lived lives untouched by pestilence, famine, or war, who had enough and more than enough.
Why were they so fearful?
His flock, these well-fed, prosperous people lived in constant and nameless anxiety, the lurking fear that something, someone somewhere was scheming to rob them of what they had and destroy their way of life. They had spoken to him of this fear in a thousand conversations over the years, the dread that infected their lives so that every setback, every difficulty— the lost job, the drug-addicted child, the failed marriage— was the result, not of life’s uncertainty or human frailty, but of a dark power being wielded against them.
There was evil in the world. That was indisputable, but to live in constant fear of Satan was to concede that his power was greater than the Lord’s, and that was faithlessness. No evil was greater than God. God was the cure for every ill, the path out of every place of darkness, the strong arm that reached out to the imperiled and pulled them to safety. That had always been Daniel’s message, that was his faith; it was a message of hope and joy. But now he was told he had to exploit their fear. He was asked to terrify them into voting for a law that, if passed, might force his own child into a quarantine camp.
Just as he could not bring himself to tell Wyatt he was going to Hell, he could not bring himself to say the words on the page in front of him.
He unhooked his microphone from its stand, stepped away from the pulpit, strolled to the edge of the stage, and began to speak. “John tells us, ‘There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.’”
••••
Caleb Cowell came through the receiving line, shook Daniel’s hand, and said, “I liked your preaching, Dan, but it seems like you didn’t quite get to what you wanted to say.”
“What makes you think that?” Dan replied. He was conscious of Jessica at his side, listening to the exchange.
“You didn’t get around to telling us exactly who you think we’re afraid of.”
“But I did,” Dan said. “I said we shouldn’t be afraid of people who are different or assume that because they are different God loves them any less or that they were not also made in His image.”
Cowell nodded. “Yes, I heard that, and I was waiting for you to tell us exactly who you were talking about.”
“It applies to a lot of people. You should know that.”
Cowell said. “You mean you were talking about Black folk?”
“There are all kinds of prejudice,” he said, growing uncomfortable.
“But you were thinking of a particular kind of prejudice. Weren’t you?” There was a glint of a smile in Cowell’s eyes.
Daniel shook his head. “Not really. Sorry, Caleb we’ve got to keep the line moving.”
“Sure, Pastor. Jessica.”
He moved away and Dan reached out his hand to the next congregant, but no hand was offered in response. Instead, Bob Metzger stood before him and said, stiffly, “I’m very disappointed in you, Pastor.”
“Why is that, Bob?”
“You departed from the text we had agreed on.”
“I was moved by the spirit in a different direction.”
Metzger face was stony. “You agreed to participate in the Day of Reckoning.”
Dan forced a smile. “As I said, the spirit moved me to speak on another text. There will be a time and a place to address . . . the proposition.”
“Are you so sure it was the holy spirit that moved you?” Metzger asked, coldly. “Are you so sure, Pastor, that that was the voice speaking into your ear when you betrayed your promise?”
“Good to see you, Bob, “Daniel replied and reached for the next hand. “Tommy, Lois, how are you? How’s Mindy doing at her new school?”
••••
Josh fell into the habit of coming over after his shift at the restaurant a couple of nights a week and staying overnight, but all we did was sleep together. Then, one night, we started kissing, lightly at first, but then with greater intensity and purpose until we tangled up in each other’s bodies, hands restlessly stroking and probing. My mouth moved down his chest, his belly, and then, just as I was about to take him in my mouth, he gasped, “Wait!”
“What, Josh?”
He ran his fingers through my hair. “I’m afraid of infecting you.”
I pulled myself up on the bed so that we were face to face. “There’s almost no risk with, uh, oral sex.”
“Almost no risk isn’t no risk.”
“We don’t have do anything you don’t want to,” I said, “but I take responsibility for myself.”
He sighed. “I’m like an apple with a worm eating away at its insides. I feel so . . . unclean.”
I pulled him into my arms. “It’s a virus, not the judgment of God.”
“Try telling that to my dad.”
“Did he say that to you?”
He relaxed against my body. “No, but only because I haven’t told him. Or my mom. Not about HIV. Not even that I’m gay.”
“Maybe you should think about coming out to them.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been enough of a disappointment to them already. Dropping out of school, disappearing. I’m the only son. My dad’s counting on me to carry on the family name.”
“Is that so important?”
“For a conservative Jew like my father, who sees history as one long pogrom, yes, it’s very important. Each new generation of Mandels represents survival. If he knew the name would end with me, it would— well, I don’t want to think what it would do to him and I’m afraid to find out.”
I held him quietly for a moment and then said, “You can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he said roughly. “You think I want him to find out from some doctor when I get sick? I know I have to tell my parents. I know I do. I just don’t know how.”
I understood then that his shame, as much as his fear of infecting me, was what kept him from letting me make love to him.
I kissed him. “Why don’t we get some sleep?”
“I’m sorry, Henry,” he said.
“You shouldn’t be. I’m not. I’m glad you’re here.”
“But I’m such a mess.”
“The circumstances are messy. You’re fine.”
He grinned. “God, you’re such a lawyer. You have an answer for everything.”
I kissed him again and spooned him, listening to his breath deepen as he drifted into sleep. I wished I could remove his shame and guilt. I knew he thought his behavior was responsible for his infection but, despite what he believed, he hadn’t been uniquely promiscuous. I’d had as much sex in my twenties as he had, all of which was now considered “unsafe,” and undoubtedly some of my partners had carried the virus. I hadn’t avoided the infection through any special virtue of mine any more than he’d become infected because he was especially debauched. It was a crapshoot, a lottery, a game of chance. Guilt and shame were wastes of emotional energy.
When I’d staggered into AA filled with those emotions and a hefty dose of self-loathing, people told me, let us love you until you learn to love yourself. What bullshit, I thought, but I was wrong. If the people you love refuse to treat you with the contempt you feel for yourself, you eventually have only two choices: hang onto your self-hatred and lose those people or let go of the self-hatred and begin to see yourself as they see you— as someone worth loving. Whether he knew it or not, Josh was about to reach that fork in the road.
••••
Sitting at his father-in-law’s desk, Daniel reread the proposed agenda for the following day’s meeting of the Overseers. All routine, except for the final item under New Business where five words— vote of confidence in Pastor Herron— were followed by the notation “Proposed by Brother Metzger.” He’d been expecting an assault after his sermon the previous Sunday but not that the attack on him would be so direct or so clumsy.
Metzger’s preferred tactics against him were subtle and spidery, like the man himself. A vote of confidence? It was meaningless. Even if Metzger could muster a majority to disapprove of Dan’s stewardship, Dan could not be removed except by a unanimous vote of the Overseers. Max Taggert had inserted the provision into the church’s constitution to ensure his rule would be perpetual, and now Dan reaped the benefit. The old man, he thought, must be turning over in his very tomb on the grounds of the church. For surely, after Dan’s performance on the Day of Reckoning, Max would have sided with Metzger.
He sighed. This pointless vote must be the opening shot of some larger scheme by Metzger to depose Dan. But what could it be? A lawsuit? On what grounds? A claim of financial impropriety? On what basis? And then a thought flashed through his head and his heart raced, Does he know about Wyatt? No, that couldn’t be it. If Metzger had had that weapon in his arsenal, he would have deployed it before now. There was nothing to do but wait to hear what the man had to say.
With a start he realized it was almost nine. He picked up the phone to call Wyatt, but then an explosion at the front of the church rocked his office. His first panicked thought was earthquake. That explained the shaking but not the noise. A car crash on La Brea? No, the explosion was too loud and too near. He hurried to the window and looked toward the sanctuary where smoke was rising from the entrance. He dashed to his desk to call 911 but as he dialed the last digit, the world dissolved into chaos: shards of glass flew through the air, walls collapsed, an eardrum-splitting roar bellowed up from the floor, and the portrait of Max Taggert was incinerated by a visible wave of heat that seared Dan’s flesh from his bone but not before he uttered, “Wyatt . . .”
••••
The key turned in the front door, followed by footsteps, and then Josh hopped over the back of the couch and settled in beside me. I lowered the volume on the eleven o’clock news.
“Hey,” he said, kissing me.
“Hey. How was work?”
“I waited on a famous person,” he said, dropping the name of an actor I vaguely recognized as part of what the media called the Brat Pack. “He’s even better looking in person, but he was also kind of a bitch.” He glanced at the TV. “Turn the volume up.”
On the screen, a reporter stood in front of the darkened façade of a weird-looking building. Behind him, a floodlight illuminated blown-out doors and windows as if the building had had its teeth knocked out. Wisps of smoke drifted out from within the building; there was some lettering over what appeared to be the entrance: An E and two Ks and an A. Firefighters and police officers dashed around him.
“. . . two blasts just moments ago, one at the entrance to the chapel, where I’m standing, and one in a building behind the chapel . . .”
“That’s the church on South La Brea,” Josh said. “I drove past there like, a half-hour ago.”
“Police and the fire department are still arriving,” the reporter said. “Police confirmed there were two explosions. We don’t know what caused them or if anyone was in the building when it happened but as you can see behind me there’s a lot of damage.” The reporter paused, listening to his headphone. “Okay, we’ve just been told we have to clear the area because police now believe the explosions were caused by bombs and there may still be unexploded bombs in the area. Back to you, Bill.”
In the studio, the avuncular anchor put on his gravest expression. “Bombs in churches,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t s
een anything like that since Black churches were bombed in the South in the early days of the civil rights movement. We will keep you posted about this breaking story as we learn more.”
“You drove past there?”
“Yeah, I didn’t see anything, but I wasn’t really looking. It’s called Ekklesia, one of those big evangelical places that preaches God hates fags. It was on the list of churches for a QUEER action next month.”
“What action? Laura didn’t tell me anything about an action against churches.”
Josh smiled. “Probably because she didn’t want you to try to talk them out of it. I think the idea is everyone would dress up in their Sunday best, get into the church, and then stage a die-in in the aisles and stay there until the cops came.”
I shook my head. “Trespassing on church property, disrupting a religious service. Talk about walking into the lion’s den.”
“Just like the first Christians,” he replied with a smirk.
“It’s no joking matter, Josh. There’s a real potential for violence there.”
“Are you kidding? They’re behind the quarantine. They want to put me in a concentration camp! That’s already pretty violent. Plus, the whole ‘God hates fags’ crap. You don’t think some poor gay kid in one of those families hears that and doesn’t think about killing himself?”
I’d never seen him so angry, so I waited a moment for him to compose himself before I asked, “Did you ever think about killing yourself?”
He deflated. “That’s not the point.”
“It is for me. I want to understand you.”
He put his hands behind his head and shrugged. “Yeah, I thought about it when I first understood what I was. That was just before my bar mitzvah. Before I became a man.” He smiled bitterly. “My dad, my uncles, the rabbi, everyone going on and on about what that meant. None of them said God hates fags— the idea I might be a fag never crossed their minds— but they didn’t have to. The world they were sending me into as a man had no room for a queer boy. I looked and looked, but I couldn’t see a future where I wouldn’t have to hide and lie. I didn’t think I could do it, not for a lifetime, so yeah, I considered suicide.”