My Soul Cries Out (3 page)

I
felt numb the entire time I taught my Sunday school class. After the kids left, I lingered downstairs as long as I could. Would Kevin be there? If he was, what should I do? Put on my robe and sing in the choir, pretending nothing was wrong? Yeah, right. There was no way I could smile in his face, let alone sing, while Kevin-the-hypocrite directed the choir.

After procrastinating as long as I could, I finally walked upstairs to the main floor of the church. Before I got in the sanctuary good, I knew Kevin hadn't come. There was a stiffness in the air, an atmosphere not primed by anointed praise and worship. Love and Faith had never felt so dry.

I sat down in the back. The sanctuary was expansive, with seats on the large main floor and balcony to seat eight thousand. It had all the trappings of a modern day mega church, including several large screens projecting the service, so the people in the back and balcony could see. Even with two services, we were packed to capacity.

The singers on the praise team were half singing and half looking at each other like they were trying to figure out what to do. After they sang a couple more lifeless songs, Cynthia, who had taken over praise and worship for the morning, finally gave up.

“Let's give the Lord one last shout of praise as we take our seats.” She looked happy to hand the microphone to Elder Johnson.

He read the scripture then Elder Banks led prayer. The ushers moved to take up an offering and the choir got up to sing. They struggled through an upbeat arrangement of “Jesus is Real.” Trey's front row seat in the alto section was empty.

I watched the choir and the congregation. If Kevin could fool me all this time, who else in here was gay? All of a sudden, everybody looked suspect. The way Deacon Bates clapped his hands was a little too cute. Elder Hampton seemed a little too skilled with the tambourine. The head usher seemed to switch when he walked to get the offering plate. And the way half the tenors did their little two-step? Made me think.

Kevin probably wasn't the only one undercover.

I don't know how Bishop Walker spotted me in the back, but halfway through the song, an usher tapped me on the shoulder and passed me a note written in big, agitated scrawl.

I
decided to go home for a while so I wouldn't have to answer Trina's questions about what happened at church. When I pulled into the garage, I was glad to see Kevin's car wasn't there. When I got into the house, I didn't even have time to take my boots off to give my aching feet some relief before the doorbell rang.

“Monnie, it's me. Open the door.”

He must have been parked down the street in the cul-de-sac, waiting for me to get home.

“I don't want to see you, Kevin. Go away, move to France, die. I don't care. Just leave me alone.”

“Monica, please. I need to talk to you.”

“I don't want to hear a word you have to say.”

I guess he remembered he had a key because I heard him turn it in the lock. Before he could open the door good, I crashed a vase against the wall, barely missing his head.

“Not this again. Please, just let me talk to you.” I could hear the tears in his voice.

I allowed him to open the door without throwing anything else. A part of me wanted to hear what he had to say. I needed him to help me understand. The rest of me still wanted to see his blood flow.

Kevin walked into the foyer slowly, acting like he was afraid he would have to dodge more airborne objects. He looked a mess. His eyes were swollen and puffy, like he hadn't slept since he left. He had on some wrinkled jeans and a not-so-white T-shirt. His comb twists were matted to his head.

“Did you sleep in the park with the homeless people?” I asked.

He tried to smile but tears flowed instead. For the first time, it occurred to me that this might actually be hurting him, too. His eyes were filled with more pain than I imagined any human could keep inside.

“When I was ten, a deacon from the church molested me.”

“Save it for Oprah, Kevin.” I didn't want to get sucked into feeling sorry for him. I was the victim here, and I wasn't trying to share that spot.

I couldn't take the look in his eyes, though. He needed me to listen. Needed someone to hear what he'd obviously been carrying around for years.

The pang in my heart made me realize love didn't have a switch attached to it that I could turn on and off, no matter how much I was hurting. If I could, I'd turn my love for Kevin to the “off” position and kick him out the door.

But I couldn't. In direct opposition to my mind, my heart still loved him. Even though I was mad enough to douse him in gasoline and strike a match and flick it at him, seeing his face—his eyes—did something to me. I never felt so conflicted in my life.

He stepped closer.

I frowned. “My God, Kevin! Have you bathed since the last time I saw you?”

He smiled that crooked, little-boy grin I had fallen in love with. I hated him for doing that.

“Naw. I guess I'm a little on the tart side.”

“Have you eaten?”

He shook his head.

“Well, go bathe and I'll fix something.”

He started crying, his whole body heaving. I knew he was grateful I wasn't kicking him out, or cursing him out, or throwing things at him. Grateful that in spite of the fact that he'd hurt me deeper than hurt should hurt, I still cared.

“Thanks, Monnie.”

I nodded and made a “you stink” face, stepping aside so he could go upstairs.

I wished this were a regular day. I wished he'd just come home from packing up the instruments and chilling with the band while I cooked Sunday dinner. I wished we were going to eat together then snuggle up on the couch and watch TV, or talk, or just fall asleep.

But it wasn't, and we weren't.

When he came back down, I had heated up some leftover lasagna and garlic bread. I went upstairs to change out of my wool suit and boots while he ate. He must have been starving because by the time I got back, he had finished eating and sat at the table, staring at the wall.

“Hey.” He gave me a weak smile

“Hey.” I didn't smile back. Seeing him clean, dressed, and normal put the hardness back into my heart. I really needed to pack up some more clothes and head back to Trina's. I decided to give him no more than ten minutes for whatever explanation he thought would help this situation.

I sat down across from him. He reached out to take my hands like he usually did, but I kept mine folded in my lap. He folded his hands in front of him and looked down at the table.

He blew out a long breath. “I don't know what to say.”

“Oh, I don't know, Kevin. You could start with, ‘Hey honey, did I ever mention that I like to have sex with men?'”

He winced and the tears flowed again like he had sprung a leak.

I softened a bit. “Tell me something that makes this make sense.”

He leaned back and wiped his face with his hands. I gave him a napkin and took a deep breath. “Tell me about when you were ten.”

He shifted from side to side. I could smell his fear as strong as I could smell the oregano, tomato sauce and cheese that still hung in the air.

“You know Momma was the church secretary when I was growing up. During the summer, I begged to go to work with her every day so I could play the piano.” He folded the napkin in small squares. “That's what I wanted to do all day—play the piano and the organ.”

He stopped and stared at the wall again, his eyes blinking rapidly. I knew him well enough to know to sit there and wait until he was ready to go on.

He finally turned back to face me. “There was this deacon who did things around the church—mowed the grass, cleaned—that kind of stuff. He would listen to me play and tell me how good I was, and how I was going to be rich and famous, and how my music would bless so many people. He said he knew my father wasn't around and if I ever needed somebody to talk to, I could come to him.” Kevin twisted a sprig of his thick Afro. He had washed out his comb twists when he showered.

“Momma was glad to have a male figure taking an interest in me. I think she felt guilty that my dad wasn't around. I spent more and more time with Deacon—well, this deacon. He wasn't that old, so it was like hanging around with a big brother. He took me everywhere—out for pizza, to the movies, the arcade. My mom trusted him.”

Kevin bit his lip. “One weekend, she went on a trip with the missionary board and I went to stay with him. And . . . that's when it happened for the first time.”

“The first time? It happened more than once?”

Kevin nodded. “He made me promise not to tell. Said if I told, Bishop Walker would be mad at me and wouldn't let me play the organ or piano anymore. Said my mom would think I was a faggot and put me out, and since homosexuality was a sin, I'd get kicked out of the church. In my ten-year-old mind, that would be losing everything, so I didn't tell. Momma thought it was strange that I didn't want to go anywhere with him anymore, but she never asked why.”

Kevin stared at his hands. “I was all messed up after that. I thought I was dirty and bad. I thought God hated me. I had nightmares all the time and started peeing the bed. Momma couldn't understand what was wrong with me.”

“You never told?”

He shook his head and looked down at the table.

“Kevin, look at me. You never told anybody, not even Bishop Walker?”

He stared straight at me. “No, Monnie, I never told anyone. You're the first person that's ever heard this.” Big tears plopped onto the kitchen table.

“Oh, Jesus, Kevin.” Instinctively, I wiped his face. When I realized what I was doing, I drew my hand back.

We sat there, quiet for a few minutes, before he continued. “After that, I lived in a constant state of confusion. A door had been opened that should have never been opened, and I didn't know how to close it. Can you imagine what it was like to feel feelings I knew it was a sin to feel? I prayed all the time for God to take it away, but it was still there, inside of me. The boys' locker room after gym class? A nightmare. Boy Scouts sleepover summer camp? A nightmare. And let's not talk about all-night youth lock-ins at the church.” He rubbed his face and twisted another sprig of hair.

“I met Trey in the tenth grade. His family had just moved to D.C. from Philadelphia. We became friends and then . . . more than friends. He was the only person I could talk to about it because he knew exactly how I felt. Only he didn't struggle with it. He didn't have the same issues about it because he didn't grow up in church. I mean, you know he still had the stigma, but he didn't have the whole ‘you're going to hell if you don't get delivered' thing on top of it. He even started going to church with me, but it didn't bother him a bit.”

“What's Trey's story? How'd he end up that way?”

“That way?” Kevin flinched. “Not every gay or bisexual man has a ‘story.' I know that's what a lot of Christians think. They think we all had this event where something traumatic happened to us and opened the door for the spirit of homosexuality to jump up in us. We were all molested by somebody or grew up without a father or some drama, but that's not the case. Trey grew up in a normal home with a mother and father. Nobody ever molested him, and he's gay.”

I shook my head. “But how? Why?”

“Monnie, I don't know. You think I don't ask God that every day? Was he born gay? Was
I
born gay? Is it a demonic spirit? Something in the environment? Family upbringing? Or is it genetic like they're saying now? I don't know. All I know is I hate it.”

Kevin's eyes blazed. “Do you know how it feels to think I'm going to hell for something I have no control over? Think about it. I love God with all my heart. I've been saved since the age of five. Find me ten Christians, though, who wouldn't argue that I'm going straight to the bottom of hell when I die. Find me ten others who wouldn't have me sat down as the minister of music or kicked out of the church if they knew about my past.”

I nodded because I knew he was right.

“At the end of my senior year, Bishop Walker called me into his office and said he noticed some things he was sure God wasn't pleased with. He said he knew I'd been struggling for some time, and that it looked like the enemy was winning the fight. He couldn't even look me in the eye while he talked to me. He said I needed to take some time off from playing and directing the choir and settle the issues. That almost killed me.”

I could imagine. There was nothing Kevin loved more than his music.

“He told the church I was taking a break from the music ministry so I could focus on college. He also announced the church was giving Trey a full scholarship to go to Temple. Trey had planned to go to Howard with me, but his parents wouldn't let him pass up the money.”

My stomach churned. The thoughts I had forced out of my head after my talk with Bishop Walker resurfaced.

“After my junior year of college, Bishop said he was satisfied the music ministry wouldn't distract from my studies and put me back over the choir again. He never mentioned me and Trey again, but I knew he was watching to make sure I ‘got it out of my system'.”

“How were you supposed to do that?”

Kevin gave me a wry smile. “Since I wasn't over the choir, I visited a lot of other churches and went to every conference I could find. If I had a dollar for every prayer line I ever stood in, for everybody who prayed over me and told me God had taken it away—for every time I laid at the altar, crying out to God to make me straight.” He shook his head. “I'd be a very rich man.

“When I was at Howard, I stayed to myself. I didn't hang around the other musicians because . . . I guess I didn't hang around many guys at all. I was afraid that even though I had been told I was delivered, it was still there. I didn't want to give it a chance to rise up again.”

Kevin looked at me with those dramatic, deep-set eyes. “Then I met you. And we became friends, and fell in love, then . . . you know the rest of the story.”

I grabbed his arm to still his fidgeting. He was driving me crazy, folding that snotty napkin over and over. He looked up at me and smiled weakly, his eyes begging me to understand. To love him in spite of.

No way was I letting him off that easy. I got up and put the foil back over the lasagna and put it back in the refrigerator. “What I don't understand is why I had to find out the way I did. You know everything there is to know about me. Every secret, every embarrassing moment, my fears, my dreams. I thought I knew the same about you. I thought we trusted each other. Why didn't you tell me this before?”

Kevin paused. “If you had known this before, would you still have married me?”

“Well, no. I mean, why would I marry a gay man?”

“Let me ask this, then. Could you marry a man who was ‘delivered' from the spirit of homosexuality? Everybody tells us, ‘get delivered, trust in the Lord—He can deliver anybody from anything. ' But really, how many women would marry a man with my past lifestyle?”

“Not many, because they'd be afraid of exactly what happened to me on Saturday happening to them. It would be like marrying an ex-crack addict or a recovering alcoholic. You never know when they might fall off the wagon.”

“So you're telling me I can't love a man, but I'll never find a woman who will marry me?”

“No, well . . . yes, well—”

“So a man who's homosexual for whatever reason—whether he was born like that or got turned out, or whatever the theory of the day is—if God ‘delivers' him from homosexuality, he has to spend the rest of his life alone because no woman will have him?”

I didn't bother to answer.

“Right or wrong, I guess that's why I didn't tell you.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I thought I had it beat. It was over. In my past. I would never have married you if I ever thought this would happen. It had been since high school.”