— Faith-based programs provide the only successful cure.
“Hey, I wonder if they can fix your asthma while they’re at it.”
—Live the life you always imagined for yourself.
“I already do; thanks anyway.”
—100% success rate.
“I’d bet their graduates are really masculine. The guys, too.”
Next thing you know, he’s waving the back of the brochure at me, knocking my pen as I tried to highlight the roads. “Check out this guy.”
The attractive teenager was dressed in Sunday best, his hair parted in a perfect line; his shy wince of a smile suggested he’d been frightened by the camera flash. A caption beneath said: “Now that I’ve renounced sin and found God, I’m much happier.” I wondered what the boy had been like before his treatment. Maybe he’d hated himself. Maybe this really was the cure he’d hoped for.
“’Renounced sin,’” Jack scoffed. “Kids don’t talk that way—unless they’re brainwashed.”
Now, I loved Jack, but that didn’t mean I always had to agree with him. Sometimes he was all too willing to make jokes at another person’s expense—especially when he got into activist mode. He was right, and everybody else was stupid. They deserved to be mocked.
Religion was one of his biggest targets. Get rid of all the churches, he’d say and there wouldn’t be any more wars. He’d never admit the good work churches have done: from the Daily Bread kitchen I volunteer at once a month, to the simple comfort they provide to parishioners while a loved one is dying.
Jack would be furious to know how much I prayed during our last weeks together.
Anyway, I finished marking our new route on the map, slightly irritated about the scratchy line where Jack had jostled my pen—
(I know: it’s sad I still remember things like that.)
—and Jack turned the key, starting the engine with that signature putter that VWs had.
I was glad we finally got moving, because the sweat on my neck had started to sizzle again. A few minutes on slow side roads and we’d be back on the highway. “You’re planning to interview them?”
“No,” Jack said. To fit his tall frame into the car, he had to duck his head slightly toward the steering wheel. It always made him seem a bit crazy, as if he stared intently at the road. “I want to let them try to cure us.”
#
Before we made it to Liberty Baptist, Jack insisted on a detour. We passed a small strip mall, visible from the highway, and he turned us around. It was nothing special: drug store, card shop, fast food grill, that sort of thing. But they had a Sears at the far end of the parking lot. Pretty pathetic by today’s mall standards, but I guess a small town was lucky to have it.
We ate lunch at the grill, ordered milkshakes at an old-fashioned soda fountain we found in the drug store. Then we went clothes shopping at Sears.
Jack’s bright idea was for us to dress like the kid on the brochure. He said this would be our costume, would help us “get into our characters.” Jack had a theatrical streak, sure, but I knew the idea mainly sprang from his tendency to mock others.
He did a lot of mocking in the Men’s Department. He found a pair of striped pants that were about twelve seasons out of fashion, and a paisley sports coat that could never have been in fashion. “Who’d buy crap like this?” he said, and I could see he was tempted to put them in his cart, just for laughs.
“Cut it out,” I said. I didn’t really like the plan to begin with, and all this horsing around made me uncomfortable.
“You’re afraid the salesman will overhear and get his feelings hurt?”
He was laughing at me then, and I could tell he wanted me to turn around.
The salesman’s footsteps clicked on the tile behind me. He asked if he could help us.
He was wearing a copy of that same paisley sports coat.
I figured Jack had made this happen, but I couldn’t be sure. I pretended not to notice, regardless. It’s not polite to laugh at what somebody’s wearing.
(I don’t know, Celia. If so, Jack kept it going during the whole sales transaction. I was a little miffed, to be honest, so I didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking later.)
Eventually Jack flashed his MasterCharge to buy us a shirt and tie each, plus two fairly standard polyester suits. The suits look okay in the picture, but the material was hot and scratchy. The small-town Sears didn’t have “tall” sizes, either, and we had no time to make alterations, so you can see where Jack’s sleeves run a bit short.
He suited up in the fitting room, and wore his outfit for the rest of the drive. I wouldn’t put on the coat and tie until I had to.
#
We pulled into the parking lot of Liberty Baptist about fifteen minutes later. No trouble finding a space: it was Thursday afternoon, with no services in session. That, and the lot was humongous.
Jack barely turned off the engine before he started a rant. “These priorities are messed up. Town has a Sears the size of a shoebox, but the church is practically a football stadium.”
I’d taken a sliver of ice from the cooler and was running it around my collar and across my forehead before I knotted the tie in place. “It’s a big part of the community, I guess.”
“And you can bet the community’s paying for it. Pass the collection plate, and fill ’er up. But if the schools need a new playground or a few more teachers, tough luck.” He reached behind the seat to grab his backpack, and slipped a loop over one shoulder after we stepped out of the car.
I shrugged into my scratchy new suit coat. “It is a pretty big church,” I agreed, careful not to encourage him too much. No telling how strident Jack would get during our meeting, so it was best to keep him calm in the buildup. But I had to admit he was right: this complex did not come cheap. The main church building and its steeple rose up imposingly against the sky, surrounded by a maze of interlocking buildings for the Bible school, daycare center, auditorium, meeting rooms. I wished I had another map to help us navigate the place.
A stone walkway led up from the parking lot, and I found the map I wanted, glass-covered and mounted on a post. A wooden cubby offered more of the brochures—a prominent display, suggesting that these so-called cures were a central part of the church’s mission. Their income, Jack would say. A red arrow pointed toward a garden path on the left.
We passed through a well-tended courtyard, complete with stone benches, flowers, and a cherub fountain in the center. At each corner a bush had been sculpted into a topiary figure. The shapes were mostly impressionistic, relying on familiar poses to complete the image in the viewer’s mind: a priest bowed in prayer, Mary cradling her baby, Jesus with one hand over his heart. The Satan topiary in the fourth corner had far more detail: horns on his head, deep-set eyes that seemed to glow in the afternoon sun, a shadowed mouth that curled into a malicious grin; hooved feet, and a lower branch curled to form a forked tail. In his hand, he lifted a collection plate.
“Very funny,” I said, and Jack laughed.
The path led to a small building that jutted out from a larger structure. The entrance wasn’t marked, but beside the door was another wooden cubby filled with brochures. Jack opened the door without knocking, then stepped inside.
I guess we both expected something a little less tasteful: posters warning about the evils of sin, maybe, or pictures of happy married couples with their picket fences and 2.5 kids. Instead, the reception area was mostly bare: one cross on the wall, a few guest chairs, and an endtable with fresh flowers in a crystal vase. A wooden countertop partitioned the back third of the room, and a closed door led deeper into the larger building.
“Bet that’s where they keep the orgy room,” Jack said. He tapped the service bell on the counter.
The door opened, and a boy stepped in to greet us. He had that innocent air of a kid playing at work, rather than taking it seriously.
It took me a moment to recognize him as the converted teen from the brochure. In the photo, I re
alized now, he wore the suit so he’d appear older—a high school senior or college freshman. Here, casual in a light blue polo shirt, he seemed barely thirteen or fourteen. That difference made this particular ministry seem worse to me. Had they really tried their “cure” on a boy this young? His soul hadn’t been in any danger; he had all variety of sexual thoughts, like any adolescent boy, but surely wasn’t ready to act on them. Hell, he’d barely had time to even understand these thoughts before his supposedly well-meaning church charged in and convinced him he was effeminate and impure before God.
Now I felt even worse about the suits Jack and I were wearing, mocking this poor kid.
“You’re both gay.” No formalities. No awkward circles around the subject. I remembered how tough it still was to be honest about myself with family and friends, how I’d even been shy with Jack at first, how impossible it seemed just to say it, especially with strangers. And this kid got it out of the way with his first words.
“Yeah,” Jack said, and introduced himself. He shook the boy’s hand across the counter.
“I’m Luke,” he said, reaching for me next with a kind of “peace be with you” shake. His small hand held me firm for a moment, waiting to make eye contact.
Luke’s eyes were soft brown, and his lashes were beautiful. He’d seemed attractive and clean-cut in the brochure photo, and I’d been comfortable making this kind of observation when I thought I was only a few years older than he was. Now that I knew Luke was a kid, he was off limits . . . but I didn’t want to let go of his hand, didn’t want to stop staring into his eyes.
“I was gay, too,” Luke said. He dropped his gaze, took back his hand. Then he recited a quick speech about the church’s program. His voice lacked emotion, but there was a kind of sweetness to his phrasing. It reminded me of how a boy’s choir can miss a lot of the notes, but the overall sound still has a pleasing, angelic quality. That’s what I was thinking as he spoke, and I was also thinking . . .
(Here’s one of those places where the story gets difficult to tell, even some thirty years later.)
Listen, I’d like to pretend it was some residue from the brochure photo. When I thought he was eighteen, it was okay to have thoughts that were, I guess, vaguely sexual. The church probably even planned it that way: put a good-looking teen on the brochure, and the image should entice more “troubled” gays into their conversion program. But the photo hadn’t really registered with me in that way. I was reacting to the kid in front of me now—the boy, God help me—and I was thinking . . .
(I’m blushing even now.)
. . . about the shape of his mouth as he talked. How soft, yet firm, his hand was when it clasped mine. As I thought these things, I felt perverted and unclean.
I hated myself, the way this boy’s church wanted me to hate myself.
When his recitation ended, Luke told us to wait a minute, and he’d bring his mother.
Jack stage-whispered the instant the door clicked shut. “Can you believe it? She exploited her own son.”
I was still in a daze of misdirected desire, so Jack had to spell it out for me.
“Gloria Leavendale.” He held up the brochure and pointed to her picture. “She put her own kid through this barbaric therapy. Can you imagine that? A mother hating her son so much that she’d force him to change?”
The idea wasn’t so far-fetched to me, actually. Jack’s parents still hadn’t accepted who he was—and they weren’t too pleased he’d taken this long road trip with me, directly after college.
I pointed to where Luke had stood behind the counter. “He didn’t exactly seem unhappy.”
“Are you kidding? That little robot? All he did was spout back whatever creepy phrases his mother programmed into him.”
Obviously we hadn’t seen Luke the same way—which was fine, since I didn’t want Jack having the same disturbing ideas I had. The rough part, though, was that I was too ashamed to mention these ideas to Jack. We were always so open and honest with each other; it felt weird keeping a secret from him.
“She must be a piece of work, this Gloria lady. I can’t wait until she tries her stupid religious tricks on us. Afterward, I’m really gonna put her in her place.”
“I’m not sure I want to go through with this.” As vulnerable as I was feeling about myself in that moment, I was half-afraid the woman’s treatment might work.
“Get a grip. It’s not like Crazy Religious Mom is gonna throw us in a dungeon or whip us until we—”
The door opened again, and Gloria Leavendale glided into our presence.
She wore a cream-colored dress that must have been form-fitting, but for modesty’s sake a brown sash stretched around her waist, and a silk scarf covered her bare shoulders. She was all smiles, and immediately began repeating phrases from the brochure: she could “lead us to a happier life with the Lord,” that sort of thing. Gloria struck me as a tour guide, a realtor showing a house, so I wasn’t surprised when she stepped from behind her counter and took us on a leisurely stroll through the church grounds.
In the courtyard, she pointed out a bible verse carved into the fountain base, identified a few of the most colorful flowers. Satan was gone from his corner, with a topiary dove in his place.
Gloria had shaken our hands initially; she learned our names and dropped them into the lecture on occasion. But the tour allowed her to be impersonal, directing our attention to church facilities, rather than stopping to look into our faces.
As if our very existence offended her.
We got closer to the main entrance, up an impressive flight of steps, and that’s when Jack mentioned money. “The brochure says your treatment is free of charge.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Gloria walked ahead of us, not turning her head. “It’s part of our mission. We’d never require payment from people we bring closer to God.”
She heaved open one of the front doors and brought us into the church proper. The tall ceiling and rich ornaments belied her carefree comment about payment. Stained glass windows, paintings in gold-trimmed frames, detailed arch carvings and intricate floral designs along each pew—all of it conveyed, not so much the majesty and weight of tradition I usually felt in a church, but more like a sense of polish. A show of money.
“Because I could pay,” Jack said. “A donation, if you’d prefer to call it that.”
Now, with the guided tour paused in the church alcove, Gloria Leavendale deigned to look at us. Or at Jack specifically, as he spouted on about his money.
“I won a journalism prize when I graduated from Chesapeake. A ridiculous amount of money, really, and we’re using it to travel around for a year: gas, fast food, budget lodging. Because I haven’t really done much worth writing about, you see—so I thought we’d explore the country, find things worth putting to paper. My boyfriend came with me—”
Jack might have slipped when he said boyfriend, but it’s just as likely he said it on purpose to gauge her reaction. She’d been smiling at the sweet thought of money, and for a flash that smile puckered sour, but she recovered herself.
So did Jack: “I mean, I guess we won’t exactly be boyfriends any longer once your treatment works. And you say it will, right? Guaranteed? I’m guessing our parents would throw a little money your way, too, considering how, you know, they really want grandkids.”
The frantic level of Jack’s improvisation told me he’d gotten a bit too much “into his character.” Instead of playing the more realistic role of a troubled young man seeking guidance, he’d fallen into his own idea of a perfect candidate for the church’s conversion therapy: not thoughtful or questioning or insecure, but eager.
He threatened to slip into parody, and I think Gloria Leavendale was starting to lose patience with him. I tried to cut him off with a straightforward question. “How long does the therapy take?”
“Yeah, I want to start right away,” Jack said. “Be with God as soon as possible.”
Gloria lifted a hand to quiet him. I half expected her eyes t
o roll heavenward. “I have some papers for you both to sign, and a binder of study materials.”
Jack pulled a click-pen from his suit pocket, ready to sign. “I read fast.”
Her hand lifted again. This time, maybe she wanted to slap him. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but these things have to happen in their own time. We need to arrange your spiritual consultations, and set up the group meetings.”
She’d finally given some hint about the actual process. “Spiritual consultation” had an innocent-enough ring—though in the Inquisition days, of course, such consultations frequently involved the dungeons or whips Jack had joked about.
“You mentioned group sessions,” I said. “There would be other people . . . like us?” It bothered me that I had trouble saying the word “gay” to her.
“Yes. Mostly locals, though our brochure brings travelers on occasion.”
“I’m glad we won’t be going through the process alone,” Jack said. “I like to be part of a community. When people work together and are honest . . .”
I tuned him out a bit. Gloria’s mention of locals set off another red flag. How many local participants could there possibly be? Despite the impressive size of their church, Liberty Baptist was located in a small southern town. How many locals would identify as gay? And of that number, how many would volunteer for ongoing spiritual treatment? I envisioned Salem witch hunts, a frenzy of accusations and fear creating new victims—especially among the young and insecure. Jack and I would be the oldest in the room, sitting in a circle with a group of adolescents. A mother would wheel in a stroller then place her fourteen-month infant on one of the folding metal chairs. “My son has started talking. He has a lisp.”
I needed more information before I signed any papers. “Can we meet with someone who’s already undergone the treatment?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “One of your successful graduates.”
Gloria paused, uncomfortable for a moment. “I’m afraid we can’t do that. I don’t want to violate anyone’s privacy.”
Odd Adventures with your Other Father Page 9