“I could talk to them, mother.” Luke had stepped into the alcove without my noticing. His voice was tentative. He cupped his hands in front as if he was making an offering.
My face flushed with heat. I couldn’t look at the boy, or at his mother.
“No, I don’t think that would be appropriate.” She spoke to all of us at the same time. I was afraid she could read my mind, summoning up all manner of perversions I’d inflict upon her underage son.
Then I decided I was being paranoid. Gloria would suspect all gay men of wanting her boy. We were predators. That’s why we needed to be cured.
Gloria had been Zach’s mother for a moment, but now she was his employer. “Get permission forms from the office, and compile two binder sets.”
He nodded and left. Despite how uncomfortable I was in his presence, I was sorry to see him go.
While we waited, Jack sized up the church, whistling a bit at the decor. He was drawn to one archway in particular, with carved pillars on either side, sculpted vines curving around like snakes, and a gold-painted shell at the keystone. Jack grabbed my shoulder and positioned me beside the left pillar, then he unzipped his backpack and rummaged to find his disposable camera. He held it toward Gloria Leavendale and asked, “Do you mind taking our picture?”
Afterward, she made that comment about how miserable we were, if we’d only realize it.
#
“What a gorgon.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I got your message.”
“A huge improvement, don’t you think?”
(And Celia, I’m never sure if you believe this part of our stories. But you’re our daughter. We lost Jack when you were only four, but you remember him well enough. Maybe not a lot of specific memories, but you still recall that general sense of being loved unconditionally—right? And you could feel, even at a young age, that your fathers shared a special bond. Something more than love, something more than we’d get from society’s approval, from some official certificate signed by the Justice of the Peace. The glamours—the images Jack was able to send—validated our relationship in some strange way, especially since I was the only one who could see them. That was our special bond, and it held us together when the Gloria Leavendales of the world seemed against us. Of course, I often wished Jack’s sense of humor weren’t so sardonic, and hoped he’d someday learn to send pleasant images once in a while instead of gorgons and crazy Satans . . . but even so, it was our connection. I’d get frustrated with him sometime, sure, but I always loved him. Still love him.
Sorry. Give me a minute.)
Okay. So, since this so-called therapy was going to take a while, we’d camped out at the Willow Motel. We shared a room, but heaven forbid the clerk would give us a double bed. Jack had pushed the twin beds together, all the while making fun of Gloria Leavendale. Myself, I was well past imagining excuses for her. She wasn’t a nice religious woman with good, if misguided, intentions. I still disagreed with Jack’s mockery, though. There wasn’t anything funny about her. She was dangerous.
After changing into a fresh T-shirt and shorts, I sat at the room’s tiny wooden desk and scoured through the binder she’d given us, searching for confirmation of her sinister motives.
I was disappointed. Mostly there were scriptural passages with annotations. Even usual bugbears—like Leviticus 18, “Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination.”—weren’t given the typical depressing emphasis. The commentary said things like, “God loves you as you are,” or “The goal of religion is to help you find peace with yourself.” All positive affirmations—such phrasings wouldn’t be out of place at the Lambda Community Center in Baltimore.
Maybe the program wasn’t so bad after all. Gloria’s smiles were authentic. If a gay teen found himself unable to convert, she’d still welcome him into her church with open arms. Hate the sin, love the sinner—that kind of thing.
“What a load of crap.” Jack tossed his binder onto one of the beds; the metal rings clicked open and some loose pages fanned out over the chenille bedspread. “So sickening and sweet. Like anybody’d fall for that.”
“It’s better than I thought it would be.”
“Sure. Classic bait and switch.” He claimed the other bed, kicking the covers down and propping a pillow so he could lean against the wall. “This binder gets people in the door. It’s a publicity thing. Maybe it creates goodwill, or earns them a grant from the Anita Bryant Foundation.”
I tried not to notice what a mess Jack was already making of our motel room. My new suit hung in the closet-cubby, but Jack’s was on the floor. “Or maybe it is what it is. I mean, I got some pretty bad vibes from the place, same as you. That might have been a negative religious vibe, though, coloring everything for us. We shouldn’t always assume the worst.”
“Nope, not always.” Jack leaned over and tapped the inside pocket of his splayed binder. “Look at the application form.”
I flipped to the front of my binder, where I’d neglected the 8 x 11” string-tied folder. I unlooped the red string and pulled out the contents. Tiny font on the top page, with yellow and pink carbons attached. I squinted while Jack summarized.
“It’s a consent form. The middle paragraph forbids participants from speaking badly about the program after completion. That’s basically so they could sue me if I tried to expose their scam in print. There’s a non-disclosure thingy, too.”
I found it. Legalese that said “I, the undersigned, agree never to reveal any details, specific or otherwise, about my experiences at Liberty Baptist Church including persons encountered, texts consulted and interpreted, techniques employed,” et cetera, et cetera.
“It seems a little . . . ”
“Exactly,” Jack said. “Some of it makes sense, like not talking about people you meet—Alcoholics Anonymous has a similar policy. But there’s too much emphasis on secrecy. They gave us this feel good binder, with all its platitudes, before we signed anything. Which pretty much proves there’s other stuff that gorgon lady isn’t willing to reveal up front. I’m going to find out what it is.” He pulled out his own copy of the form and signed it with a flourish.
Then, barely audible over the room’s noisy, mostly ineffective air conditioner: three light knocks at the door.
#
We weren’t expecting room service—not at the dump we were staying in—and nobody knew we were here, so I threw the door open to tell some guy he’d made a mistake . . .
There stood Luke, quiet as could be, hands at his sides. He’d stepped back after he knocked, almost to the railing, as if he didn’t dare ask to be invited in.
I wasn’t planning on it. The last thing we needed: two strangers in a cheap motel, luring an underage kid into their lair. The town would be after us with torches, pitchforks, and a knotted rope. Later, they’d plant lollipops and a teddy bear as evidence.
“Hey, come on in,” Jack yelled over my shoulder. “You mom change her mind about letting us interview you?”
The boy moved forward to where I blocked the doorway. It almost seemed like he was going to embrace me. I stumbled back into the room.
Luke brushed past, and the door clanged shut. “Not exactly,” the boy said.
Jack leaped into reporter mode, brushing aside some of the spilled binder pages on the bed. He took the lone chair, pushing it close and straddling the wooden back, then motioned for Luke to take the cleared space. Jack flipped his reporter’s notebook to a fresh page, pen ready.
The boy sat at the corner of the bed. I stood by the door; the only remaining place to sit was the other bed, and that didn’t seem right after Jack had pushed them together.
“To be honest,” Luke said, “she’d kill me if she knew I came here. Well, not really kill me. That’s an exaggeration.”
The qualification really struck me. He didn’t want to be misunderstood: it would be too much like lying.
I asked how he found us.
“There’s only a few places in town,�
�� he said. “Your car’s kind of easy to spot.”
Jack gave me a look, like I was supposed to stand there and stay quiet. Leave the interviewing to him. “Tell us about the treatment,” he said.
“I can’t.” The boy looked at the bedspread, picked at one of the chenille ridges, then he smoothed it down.
“It’s why you came here,” Jack said.
“I can’t. I signed a paper.”
The non-disclosure clause. Again, the boy’s scrupulous honesty, his innocence. It kind of left me speechless for a moment. Jack, too.
But then Jack leaned forward in the chair, two of its legs tipping off the floor, and he practically launched one of his long arms at the bed. I was afraid he’d grab the collar of Luke’s polo shirt and shake some answers out of him (though I don’t think he’d quite reached a level of frustration that would merit this kind of move). Turned out, he was reaching for the binder pile.
“I signed it, too!” He retrieved the sheet and waved it like a flag. “Shawn’s gonna sign his any minute now. That means you’re allowed to talk to us.”
The struggle showed on Luke’s face. He wanted to talk, he really did. “My signature . . . it’s like a promise. I can’t break a promise. I can’t say anything bad about the program.”
That last statement gave Jack his angle, and he closed in. “So, you’re allowed to say something good about the program.”
“I guess so.”
“If there were something good to say.”
Luke nodded yes.
A long silence followed.
As with most cheap lodgings, the room was fairly dark. The management must think low-watt bulbs will hide faded wallpaper, scuffed carpet, and shabby furniture. In that awkward silence, the place seemed even darker. We shouldn’t interrogate the boy, not here. Again, I felt self-conscious about how Jack had pushed the twin beds together. The room seemed like a place of sin.
“I don’t think you should do it.” Luke’s whisper barely registered over the rattle of the air conditioner, but I knew he spoke directly to me. There were things I shouldn’t do. Things I shouldn’t even think about.
“The therapy,” the boy said, his voice rising in boldness. “You shouldn’t do it.”
Jack’s pen was ready to write. “It’s bad?”
More silence. Luke retreated into his shell again, hesitant to defy his mother and her program and the promise he’d signed. No details, the form said.
He looked at Jack, then at me. “Can I ask you something?”
Jack set his notepad and pen on the desk behind him, signaling a pause in the interrogation.
“Are you guys happy?”
“Sure,” I said, and Jack nodded in agreement. We were kind of blowing our cover, since we wouldn’t agree to this so-called cure if we were happy. But there was something so heartbreaking about the way he asked. We couldn’t help but respond honestly.
Same with his next question. “You guys . . . You guys love each other?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “We really do.”
“Oh,” the boy said. “Oh.” His face went pale. It glowed in the dim light of that shabby room. “Because I didn’t think anybody would ever love me. Ever.”
He started crying. A little cry, like he didn’t want to upset us, like he never wanted to upset anybody.
I was a statue, unsure how to respond.
Jack jumped up from his chair, said “Poor kid,” gave him a hug and a coach’s pat on the back. Then he said “Kleenex,” and I shrugged—checking around the room as if I’d find a complimentary tissue box in this dump, and maybe perfumed soaps, a shoeshine mitt, and a terrycloth bathrobe while I was at it. I think Jack muttered “useless” under his breath, before he ducked into the bathroom and came back with some squares of toilet paper.
Luke pressed the tissue against his face, blotting the tears. “Not my mother,” he said. “Nobody in our church. I didn’t even think God could love me.” He rolled the damp paper into a ball and put it in his pocket. “I changed, like they told me. I still don’t think I’ll ever be happy.”
I was so proud of what Jack said next, how tender he was. He reminded Luke how he lived in a small town where people weren’t that open-minded, said teen years were tough on everybody, but just wait it out: college would be different, he’d meet all sorts of people, or he could move to a big city and find his own crowd. Might not seem like it now, but the world’s a big place. Trust me.
Then he said something that stopped me short. He mentioned how isolated Luke must feel, so alone; how it didn’t have to be that way . . .
(Remember, these were the low-tech days, before Internet groups and cell phones and twenty-four hour cable.)
. . . and he had his own pamphlets and business cards listing hotlines Luke could call, toll-free, and talk to someone whenever he needed to. “They’re with stuff I left in the car,” Jack said, bounding out of the chair. “I’ll go get them.”
In contrast to my neatly filed box of maps, Jack had thrown his papers all over the Beetle’s back seat or jammed them into our overflowing glove compartment. He’d need to dig for a while to find anything.
“Jeez, Shawn, comfort the kid for a minute, would you? I’ll be right back.”
Don’t leave me alone with him, I thought. Please.
But Jack was already out the door.
#
“Mr. Shawn? I wish I could tell you more.”
I stood against the wall, trying to keep my distance. But the boy spoke in soft, confidential tones. I had to move closer to hear him.
(Yes, Celia, I’m embarrassed to admit how much I struggled against impure motives. He looked aglow and vulnerable in that dim light. Sympathy drew me toward him, of course, but that wasn’t the only reason.)
I turned Jack’s chair so it faced the right way, pulled it further from the bed and sat. “You can tell me anything you want. I won’t judge you.”
“I know.”
I realized, then, in that dark dirty room, that this boy trusted me. Jack had done most of the talking, had the best advice, but the kid was more comfortable now that my boyfriend was out of the room. Maybe Jack was too eager and direct, almost scary to this shy kid; I was quieter—like Luke himself. With me, he was letting down his guard.
An awful part of me wanted to take advantage of that fact.
I’m attracted to you. That’s what I was sure the boy would say next. I’m glad Jack’s not here now, and I hope he never comes back. I wish the two of us could drive off together instead.
Then I thought maybe those were my words, and I’d spoken them aloud.
The air conditioner rattled, noisy as a truck passing on the highway. Luke looked down, his hand smoothing the bedspread in a small circular motion.
Like he was inviting me to sit next to him.
“It’s my mother,” the boy finally whispered. “She’s all I have.”
I leaned closer to hear, my forearms resting on my knees.
“I can’t. I can’t say anything bad.”
About her. He’d signed a paper, she was his mom, and there was that commandment about honoring your parents.
“Tell me,” I said.
He fought against his moral code. I did, too.
I noticed sweat stains at the armpits of his shirt. Heat might have been the cause, or exertion as he walked or jogged from the church complex to our motel. But it could have been nervous sweat, too.
I wondered if there was a difference in smell. I leaned closer, breathed in a fragrance like ash and spice and lime.
“The therapy,” he said. “What she does. It’s terrible. Worse than you could ever imagine.” His whole body trembled as if the memory, or speaking about it, brought physical pain. “Promise me,” Luke said. “Please promise me you won’t do it.”
“I promise.” I felt like I would have promised him anything.
Then he cried again. Shy, sweet tears glistened on his face. I thought about things I could do that would comfort the boy, and may
be satisfy me at the same time.
#
(I won’t say any more about Luke. Mainly because nothing more happened, except maybe in my mind—and you wouldn’t want to hear that.)
Jack returned to the room about then, and he had a couple fliers and cards—one looked like it had been used to help check the oil, but I guess the phone number was legible.
He’d given up on his interview, happy to be a counselor instead. A big brother, maybe. He explained a few of the toll-free numbers, said Luke could call them from a payphone if he was scared to call from home. By the time Luke stood up to leave, the boy seemed to feel a lot better about himself. More hopeful.
I felt a heck of a lot worse. Once Luke was gone, my attraction for him vanished in an instant. All I had left was shame.
(There’s this pattern with guys, Celia. In the middle of, uh, desire I guess you’d say . . . it’s kind of like temporary insanity. When common sense comes rushing in, afterward, it can be a real shock. In this particular case, when my feelings had been so wrong . . . Well, I knew those feelings were wrong, even in the moment, but once it was over I felt overwhelmed by self-hatred.)
Jack flung himself on his turned-down bed. “Man, what an ordeal.”
“You were good with him. You helped him a lot.”
“Didn’t learn much, though.”
I hesitated, with some vague notion that Luke’s private words were a sacred confession. But Jack looked so disappointed. I told him what the boy said about his mother.
Jack’s sat up in the bed. His face lit up like he’d heard some scandal about a closeted movie star.
I wished I’d kept quiet. “He didn’t explain any further.”
“I know, that’s what makes it so fascinating,” Jack said. “What could it be? What do you think she does?”
I couldn’t begin to guess.
Jack spun one of his ideas out. “They used to do this thing called ‘aversion therapy.’ Scientists would strap you down, attach electrodes to your dork, then flash up slides of male models. If you got excited, they’d zap you with a shock, down there. It couldn’t make you attracted to women, I guess, but it could sure deflate your feelings for men.” He illustrated by lifting a forefinger straight up then curling it over. “Do you think that’s what she does? You think that’s what happens during one of their ‘spiritual consultations’?”
Odd Adventures with your Other Father Page 10